


The Past Is In The Way-Updated

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Gang Rape, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Humiliation, Hurt, M/M, Mycroft is adept at hiding feelings, Sherlock is a good brother, Slow Burn, unknown participants in the rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Mycroft has a past history he's ashamed of. It has corrupted his personal life. Never to be discussed with anyone.Then Gregory Lestrade happens to him
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Original Characters-Pete/Alex, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Vincent/Mycroft Holmes
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13





	The Past Is In The Way-Updated

**Author's Note:**

> Warning!!!!! There is a rape scene.  
> This fic was written in February 2018 and my writing has improved immensely. And that's why the rewrite.

It's the usual rainy, cold night in London and I'm sliding into the car, my driver slamming the door, annoyed that I've woken him. But not as resentful as I am.  
My damnable brother has landed in Barts Hospital. The result of an almost overdose. Again.

Entering into the private room that I secured for my younger sibling I take note of the person seated in a chair close to Sherlock's bed.  
"Who might you be? I specifically asked for no newspapermen," teeth gnashing together.

Standing up, meeting my eyes in a straight forward manner, not intimidated, "I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. I discovered your brother in a doorway lying on the steps. Your number was first on his mobile, I called and then brought him here," reaching to shake my hand.  
" Thank you, Inspector? Is it?" my arms stay at my side, my head swivels to look at Sherlock.  
"Detective Inspector." Don't know why but I'm miffed that he's gotten my title wrong.  
"His rooms been switched, and I guess that's due to you," switching my gaze to take in the exclusive room, complete with a desk, seascape paintings, and the plushest bed coverings I've ever seen in a hospital."Pretty swanky. You must be someone special. You're who?" I watched him glare at me for a second, as if I was a speck to be flicked away, then he turned to the bed.

Sherlock's eyelids flutter imperceptibly. The drip bag contains Naxolone. We've been this route before. He moans, and for a moment, his eyes open. He's not lucid enough to make comments.

"Would you be needing anything, Mister Holmes," a male nurse opens the door, and stands, hands folded in front of him.

"Some tea and biscuits," before he can ask the question, which really should be, "would you be ready to leave the hospital?"

He nods and turning my back on him, I mutter," leave now," with his shuffling to the door, I can breathe. Another unwanted person has gone

* * *

It's imperative that I attend a conference the next days and it's not until three days later that I return to the hospital.  
Standing outside Sherlocks room is the same police officer. His attendance is troublesome.  
"I wish to speak to you, Inspector."  
"Hello to you, Mister Holmes," frankly pissed at the condescending tone.  
" You have no obligation to continue. There is no investigation into this matter with my brother. I have seen to that. You're quite free to leave."  
" Yes, I noticed that the very next morning, " my hands on my hips, jutting my chin forward. " Who the hell are you anyway? Where have you been these last days? I've been here every evening." I watch his lips tighten, his back stiffen. I don't care. I'm fuming. " I find Sherlock quite entertaining and damn intelligent. I think he's managed to insult every doctor and nurse that's come in contact with him. And I don't intend to be frightened away from his bedside. I like him, Mister Holmes, whether you do or not."  
I have to admire his perseverance and tenacity, "your kindness is duly noted," beginning to swing open the door to Sherlock's room.  
"Noted? Do I go into your 'good boy' book?" not able to let him go without the last word.  
I swivel around, hand still on the door, noting those blue eyes flashing.  
"Mister Lestrade, was it? That will be all, thank you, "purposely ignoring his title.  
"Just a minute, Mister Holmes, you don't turn me away that easy. Your brother needs a caring person, and I intend to be that one. And it's Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade if you care to know."

He's perked up my interest. Here's a man willing to stand toe to toe with me. I stop, shut the door and look directly at Gregory Lestrade.

One could call him a pleasing, handsome man placed in his early fifties.  
My hand goes out to him, and he takes it, with a firmness that suggests confidence.  
"Mycroft Holmes. And yes, I welcome your friendship concerning my brother."  
"Your parents had strange ideas about first names. Oh, I meant no harm in that," clearly embarrassed, he laughs.  
"DI Lestrade, your attention to our unusual nom de plumes is not the first in our lifetimes and won't be the last."

We enter the room together, and Sherlock's eyebrows raise into the air, and in a whispered voice," well, well, a partnership is born. Who can keep Sherlock from being an addict? Is that the deal? I've never been one. Only use when bored. Go away both of you," turns on his side, and with a shrug of the shoulders, we leave him to his pout.

I make my escape as quickly as possible, having a heavy workload on my desk. But I take some time to upload Lestrade's files.  
His history is like most having to mature early to help with caring for his family. Scrabbling his way through school and into the police academy.

Sadly he fell into the trap and married early, divorcing within eleven years. He lives in an unassuming two-bedroom flat, no pets, no friends outside of the members of the police force.  
"Mister Holmes, I've been requested by the commissioner to let you in on this murder. I don't know why "exasperation sounding in Lestrade's voice.  
"I have already been informed. On my way," grabbing my coat and umbrella from the stand.

Upon arriving, the area has been cordoned off. The inspector lifts the tape and escorts me to the second floor. He asks no questions but is curious as to why I've been called in.  
Two police stand guard at a large office complex where, in one of the cubicles a man lies face down, blood spread from his torso to his legs.  
"He's--,"  
"I know exactly who he is, Inspector. The question is why," stealing a glance at the folders and papers littering the floor and desk.  
"There was a scuffle--"  
"Obviously--," not able to keep the scorn out of my voice.  
I am turning to the detective, "Inspector Lestrade. My men are on their way. Do not touch anything more than you already have. We will have this covered."  
His face darkens," why? Do you think us incapable of--."  
"Inspector," my voice turning harsh, "this is not a matter of discussion. Now, if you tell your staff to move away," turning to see agent Moore enter," my men are here. I suggest you take your leave. Now."

The rain is falling in torrents, the wind blowing, it seems, in every direction.  
I've called my car, and it's waiting outside. The Inspector had left in a huff, but he's waiting under the awning, obviously for a ride. "Inspector, would you like a ride home?"  
"Thanks, but I'll wait for a taxi."  
"What a waste of time! And you'll never get one in this weather," trying my best not to be too persuasive.  
"You always have a way of getting what you want," acceding.  
We enter the car, my driver pulling out into the street traffic and giving the address of Gregory's flat.  
He's surprised, furnishes me with his smile.  
"You are Sherlock's brother, after all. His mind palace is his dictionary, and I'm sure you have the same capabilities."  
"Not quite the same as his. He tends towards the melodramatic, as you well know."  
Raising his eyebrows," and you don't? Tell me, Mister Holmes, do you ever smile? Oh, besides that smirk that's now on your face."  
I huff. "And just how do you get your jollies?" instantly covering his mouth, realizing a slip of the tongue, his cheeks flush.  
"What a quaint word you used," taping my umbrella on the floor, spattering raindrops. "Excuse me. That wasn't what I meant to say. I merely was asking what you did for fun?" I turn to look at him," fun Inspector? You have provided me amusement enough for today," and returns my gaze to the front.

Greg, you really fluffed that one! He's not your run of the mill guy.  
I'm partially in awe of Mycroft having only met him occasionally and finding him appealing. He's so controlled, straight-laced, but hypnotic.

A complication in negotiations with an Italian ambassador led me to spend almost a month in the country. Diplomacy is crucial, but I dislike when I'm taken out of my own country.

It's impatience that has me taking a deep sigh upon entering my home and divesting myself of my suit jacket, tie, and shoes. Not quite finished making tea my mobile rings. It's situated on the counter, and muttering to myself, I know its imperative I answer. It's Mummy. She's like a bloody bloodhound. Always knowing my whereabouts.  
Keeping my voice neutral, "Yes, mummy. How are you?  
"Would it be an imposition if you come to spend a day with your mother?"  
That's not a request but a demand.  
"I just arrived home, Mummy. But I'll arrange my schedule to fit you in tomorrow. Would that suit you?"  
"You're normal impertinent self, I see. Tomorrow then."

"Mycroft--" pulling up a chair and clasping her hands on the table. I'm in the middle of eating a light lunch of a salad and home-baked rolls. Here it comes. Whatever she's brought me here for. "Don't you think--,"  
"This conversation will stop here. We have been over this more than once. I am not moved to possess a partner."  
"I'm sure there's someone-"  
Checking my annoyance, I'm overtired and can't even begin to make allowance for a mother's concern. I can't help but quip, "A lot of good it did for you. Our father deserted us--."  
Wrapping her arms around my neck, I politely shrug her off.  
"You're not young anymore, and you shouldn't be afraid of commitment just because your father and I didn't do well."  
Finding my suit jacket and putting it on, I give a peck on the cheek.  
"Mummy, time to say goodbye. I have to unpack to return to my office."  
"You have people to do all those things for you, Myc. You're avoiding this--again." "Yes, I am. And will continue to do so."

"Hello Gregory, it's Mycroft Holmes."  
" I recognize your voice. Is there a problem? Is Sherlock in trouble?" the seriousness of his responsibility toward Sherlock is commendable.  
"No, Gregory. I acquired two tickets to Hamlet the next evening. I acknowledge it's last-minute; however, I had hoped I could persuade you to accompany me."  
"Can't get any of your comrades to go, you know those blokes who run the government? Oh shit, sorry. Just threw me a curveball. Never expected you would--."  
"I'd relish - it's utterly good, Gregory. I concede. Goodnight."  
"No wait,--" as I'm about to press the off button.  
" No, no, don't. Sorry. My big mouth again. I'd love to go. Give me the details as to where and when."  
"My car will be at your--."  
"No. I'll meet you there. Easier for me."

Gregory is waiting in the lobby, and we shake hands. "I'm going to really enjoy this. I know this actor. Seen him lots of times in movies."  
Escorted by an usher upstairs to my box, Gregory's eyes light with amusement.  
"Let me guess. Season tickets."  
"My family has possessed this box for years."

An attendant produces a bottle of champagne, an ice bucket stand. He arranges two glasses on the small table separating our chairs.  
"Shi- I mean, wow, Mycroft; I've never been treated so royally."  
"It's delightful to observe this through a fresh perspective."  
So stimulating this man is! My colleagues wouldn't even flicker an eyelash to be here and sipping champagne.

Watching Gregory surreptitiously during the performance, I note he catches every aspect, each action on stage. As if he's regarding a crime scene and depositing it in his head. So much so, I've disappeared from his subconscious.

During intermission, the attendant parts the box curtain and places chocolate and honey cakes next to the bubbly. He pours the last of the champagne and departs, taking the empty bottle with him.  
"I almost want to say, 'bring on the dancing girls' at this point," Gregory, watching all of this with amusement stamped on his face.  
"Sorry, what are you implying by that?" mystified whether that means good or bad.  
"Jeez, you do live in a cocoon, don't you? It indicates that you've bought everything else out to play, and the dancing girls would be the topper of the evening. Along with possibly funny business." Damn, you Greg, you put your foot in that! I can feel a heat grow in my cheeks.  
"Pardon me, Gregory. Funny business? Oh! Yes, well--"  
Gregory covers up his humiliation by inserting a truffle in his mouth and staring at his shoes.

He's a small lad, wide-eyed at any new encounter. The experiences I observe as common is instantly novel witnessing it within his perspective.

He whispers as we walk down the aisle and towards the dressing rooms, excitement lacing his question," You're kidding. We're going to meet him?"  
Scenery shuffles around, costumed actors, running, walking, talking in various stages of dress. How nonchalant the man is, attempting to appear as if this befalls him every day. He pauses to urge a player to explain how it felt to stand on a stage and perform with all judging him night after night. A learning medium. His intention to constantly discover something fresh.

His eyes widen in shock. "No," he whispers as much to himself as to me. Rising as the door is opened, in costume, Benedict Cumberbatch stretches out his hand, the other clutching a towel.  
" Pleased you managed to utilize the tickets I gave you, Mycroft," his eyes stray to the detective.  
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Benedict Cumberbatch." I step sideways to leave the two of them an opportunity to communicate.

Outside the theatre, Gregory is about to summon a taxi. He's holding a manila folder.  
" I insist upon permitting me to escort you home," my car is sitting in front, and my chauffeur has opened the door.  
He views the marquee, essentially still dazed, takes a deep sigh, and gets in, scooching over to let me inside. He withdraws from the envelope a picture of Mister Cumberbatch, with signature and a brief inscription.  
"This will be the envy of most of the gals in my department," chuckling, "but it's mine. To remind me of this wonderful time with you."  
"You were born to be a part of this Mycroft."  
"Family connections first. Years of laborious effort and serving the appropriate personages."  
"Maybe you'd want to meet up again?" he asks, playing with the folder, his fingers not at rest.  
"I'm out of the country for at least the following two months. When I arrive back, I'll text you." While traveling through Austria I on a clear day, I have a fantastic view of the Alps. I email some pictures to Gregory. He's remained in my conscientiousness almost every day, and these photos were one way to keep in touch.

I'm surprised to see the picture from Mycroft. I've thought about him occasionally. His icy exterior may distant most people, but I understand there is a soft side. Texting back that someday I'd love to view the mountains in person, he sends more images.

My return to London is fraught with bureaucratic paperwork, and I must work late nights with my assistant Anthea.  
On the third night, both of us worn out, coffee at our sides, she stands, sighs, "I don't know about you, but I'm done in. We've documented the most important items. Leave the rest, and let's go home."  
It's ten o'clock, and after Anthea steps out the door, I contemplate my options. Go home, go to bed, read a book until I fall asleep.  
Or, will Gregory be agreeable to a late-night?  
It rings a few times, and I'm imagining either his being asleep or out for the night. Just ready to hang up when--  
_Hey Mycroft, what's up? Something wrong?_  
_I know it's late, forgive me. Are you occupied with anything of importance at the moment, and if not, would you care to join me for a late-night dessert_  
_Sitting home watching stupid tv. Not sure what would be open at--two? Didn't realize myself how late it was_  
_My house was more to my thinking. I have a cinnamon apple pie I baked last night._  
_Really? Did you bake? You? Thought you'd have one of your lackeys to do that_  
_An insignificant hobby of mine_  
_Do you have vanilla ice cream and chocolate hot fudge?_  
_No. My driver will buy some when he picks you up_  
_Sure thing, give me ten minutes to get decent_

* * *

What the hell is going on? Why has this pompous man, this elitist, decided he wants my company? This could prove to be very interesting.  
I don't know whether to ring the bell or knock, so I choose to ring. A butler, or whatever he is, opens the door. The entranceway is impressive. If I said, my flat could almost fit into it that would give someone an idea of the breath of it. A winding staircase is the first thing that catches my eye, and the sparseness of furniture is next.  
I'm led into a room that's lit with lamps and a glowing fireplace. It's rather cozy being smaller than I would have expected.  
"Sheesh, don't you ever get out of a suit? I always see you in three-piecers." There you go, shooting off your mouth! That's a fine beginning, Greg!  
"I only recently arrived home," removing my jacket and waistcoat. My assistant carries in the warmed-up pie, tea, and slices the dessert for us.

"Here, let me do it," Gregory's enthusiasm is infectious. A child in a confectionary store. Leaning over the table, the ice cream scooper in hand he takes a big dollop out and lays it on each slice.  
My assistant, Oliver nods and removes himself from the room.  
I stand and observe the detective, delighting in his joyfulness. "Do you want some hot fudge Mycroft?"  
"Why not. Let's live a little." The bottle is turned upside down, and the sweet confection is swirled on the ice cream. Gregory turns, looks up at me, a sly, playful look and twirls the chocolate onto his finger and licks it off.  
He's flirting! How obnoxious! No-- wait! It's not. I rather like the possibility that Gregory sees something in me where he wants to tease as he is doing. I will disregard it for this occasion. Possibly I am off-base in this supposition.  
Gregory is uncertain where to sit with the plate of ice cream in his hand.  
Picking mine up, I take a seat on the cream-colored sofa and indicate he should do the same. I balance the place on my lap.  
I look incredulous at Mycroft. I would never take the chance of spilling anything on that sofa, but if he's doing it then I shrug and join him.

"Now this is different. I've never eaten apple pie and ice cream so late at night," he states. "If I'm out this late on an investigation, I grab a donut and coffee and eat it at a bus stop."  
"Is that a part of your employment? To attend late-night inspections?" my nose wrinkling at the idea. "Personally, I dislike legwork. It's best done by others."  
"So what do you do?" taking a bite and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Did you ever observe any of your research in person?"  
"Yes," also having to clean my mouth," when I had started, I had to. My director saw the potential of my power to deduct and took me out of the field. I am, what is it you people say, a happy camper."  
I almost choke on the pie. Hearing Mycroft speak street language is hysterical.  
"Did I say something out of line, Gregory?" he asks, the faint worry lines appear.  
"No, No," and I search around for someplace to set my empty place down.  
"Let me take it, "rising and gently pulling it out of my hand.  
"I know this is presumptuous, and the hour is late, but would you like to join me in reviewing a movie. Downstairs is a full movie theatre."  
I gape, my eyes wide open, "A theater? In the house? This is something I have to see!"

"Years ago I became immersed in movies. Almost obsessed. I converted this basement into this playground for myself."  
"Shit, oh, I mean, wow," as I stand in the half darkened room. The screen was exactly the size seen in movie houses and six plush leather seats curved around facing the screen.  
" We both seem to like murder mysteries. Pick one out of this list, Gregory." I lean over the wide cabinet against the far wall by the entrance and pull out a binder. It has my menu of DVDs.  
"Good, I love Rebecca. Actually love most of Hitchcock's works," opening up the double doors I take out the DVD.  
"Before we begin, I have a favor to ask." Call me Greg, not Gregory. And-- is it possible I can I use Myc?"  
"I've never had anyone ask to compress my name into it's diminutive," turning my head to one side, contemplating the personal usage.  
" You're hesitating. Forget it. I'll call you Mycroft, "waving his hand and he walks down the front and takes a seat.  
"No, no, Gregory, I mean Greg. It was unexpected. Call me Myc, please."  
"We'll have tea sent down to us."

We're midway through the movie when Gregory's moves his hand to rest on my thigh. I sit as stiff as a rod. I don't want to offend him by removing it, but on the other hand, do I condone this action? I elect to leave it there and see what occurs.  
His hand stays, and my skin feels the warmth through my trousers. It's almost as if he were leaving his print mark.  
My head nods with the lateness of the hour. I'm jerked awake when I hear the end of the picture. His hand has been removed. I turn on the lights, blinking at the brightness.  
He sighs, "perfect movie and in typical Hitchcock style. I forgot that I was in someone's house, someone's private theatre, and enjoyed it."  
"I have spare rooms if you would like to stay instead of going home," walking upstairs to see the light of day.  
"No, thanks. I am not going to sleep but would love a shower and change of clothes. I'll make sure I leave the station early, though." I'll have the car drive you home," in as noncommitted voice as I could muster.  
"You make a fantabulous apple pie. And thanks for the great night, er, morning. Oh, whatever." We're at the open door, and both of us hesitate. I don't want to slam the door in his face, and so I wait. It seems he leans into me slightly. But, maybe my imagination because he waves his hand and strolls to my car and is driven off.

I wipe my face, tired but happy. It's useless to sleep, so I shower, make myself an omelet, and retreat to my office.  
But I can't wipe out the memory of his hand--on my thigh. Men don't typically touch each other. Was this within reason in Greg's sphere? Is it considered the norm? I'll have to investigate further.

The beginnings of winter days are strikingly cold, and I escape to Lisbon. I have a small but adequate tiny house that is always maintained. Without the usual bustle of work, I'm apathetic and mopish. Why have I retreated here when there is no satisfying feature to occupy my mind? It's a habit I've acquired through the years--to withdraw for some weeks until the climate warms in the city. This year, even though I initially looked forward to the move, I now find it stultifying. Twiddling my thumbs is not an option I find comfortable.

I don't enjoy texting. My fingers get in the way. Hitting the number for Gregory, I hear it ring.  
_how are you surviving the winter in London, Gregory? The sun here in Lisbon is luminous, and in the evening the breeze is delectable_  
_lucky you! Are you rubbing it in? I have no choice like you do_  


I believe I have angered him.  
_If you desire it and can find the opportunity I could accommodate you for a week or two_

He doesn't answer. He hangs up. I put the phone on the garden table, and pick up my book to read. Annoyed more at myself than at Gregory.  
_Sorry for the delay._  
My mobile ring startles me out of a slight snooze.  
_I was trying to see what would work for me. Can you give me an idea of when I could come to Lisbon? And God, yes, I would love it!_  
_Would it be an imposition to have my car meet you tomorrow at noon?_  
_You never waste any time, do you? Hang on. Don't go anywheres_  
He's mumbling to a woman, his lieutenant? _Make it three in the afternoon. Give me a chance to pack. I only can manage a week._  
_A week is wonderful. My car will transport you to the airport and my private plane. You will be met by another car at the Lisbon airport._  
He sighs, _Loved being spoiled. Send me the details please_

I immediately begin to regret my invitation. Am I making advances? Advances? Or friends? What is my interest in Detective Inspector Lestrade? My pulse is bouncing in anticipation of our week together. I haven't had any relationship since I was seventeen. I've been completely involved in government politics, purposely avoiding my personal life. I'm elated but terror-stricken. In high spirits but unnerved.

* * *

What in the shit's hell do I think I'm doing? Throwing clothes all over the bedroom, suitcase on the chair I discard a shirt, put it back. Throw it on the floor. Damn it! I'm going on holiday, last minute, with a man I barely know. What the fuck? I can't keep up with him. Either money-wise or intellectually. Me, Greg Lestrade, simple guy from the slums. And what does he expect? Am I his lackey? To perform some sexual--? No, that's ridiculous, Greg. I'm sure he can pay for professionals. And what brings that into my head?

Yes, I'm attracted to him but not in that way. What way is that way? You jerk!  
I admit, but only to myself that I had fooled with men somewhat before I met my wife, but it was in fun. Never took any of it seriously. Sucking cock was--a unique experience. Yea, totally not the same as a woman. Chuckling, looking in the mirror at my backside. Yea, from behind, was--to say the least--distasteful.

But I keep questioning, fantasizing, how Mycroft would appear without the shelter of those damn clothes. And why I had shifted my hand to his thigh was a strictly impulsive move. But boy, was I blown away when he let it lay there. Ah, well, bags packed. Car waiting. Everything is unknown.

* * *

The black limousine is stocked with liquor and sandwiches. I'm so out of sorts, nervous that I didn't realize I was hungry. The plane is as luxurious, and the hostess offers me champagne and chocolates. Is he buttering me up? What for? Is this his normal way of inviting friends? And am I a friend? I'm fatigued. From the travel and the anxiety of what lies ahead. It's so nice to feel the warmth of the sun through the window of another limousine. I'm staring at the colorful panorama of this country. Everything is brighter, more colorfully hued. Bright shades of yellow, orange, and greens. It's as if I stepped into a box of crayons.  
The driver leans his head back and states, "I thought I'd give you a little run through the city. Could have gone around it, but thought you'd enjoy this." I nod, even though he can't see it, "thanks. Much appreciated." And my first sight of the ocean comes into view; the vista is breathtaking. Bright blue sky, yellow sands. I open my window and inhale deeply. The smell of the salt, the air shimmering, is refreshing. It would be wonderful to dip my body into the ocean at this very moment. To clear the cobwebs from my head and my body.

The car turns into a pebbled driveway and heads closer towards the beach. In front is a house. A summer house he called it? Are you freaking kidding me?  
Hell, the only time I've ever been to a summer house was my aunts one-bedroom bungalow by a lake. It was only one summer, and I slept on the floor of the living-dining room along with my cousin.  
The driver opens my door, and I linger half in and half out, my mouth open. I look around in amazement! A bisque colored concrete house with a huge front porch, potted plants, rattan chairs, and tables. A mansion I would call it!  
Mycroft is standing in the doorway as I walk up the four steps, hesitant about how to greet him. Will he shake hands, hug me? We stand and stare.  
And stupidly, the first words out of my mouth are, "Aha! No suit! You've come down a notch!" Looking at him in a white linen shirt and khaki trousers. He extends his hand, and I shake it, him holding onto it a bit longer than I suppose would be considered right. But what is right at this minute?  
"Would a drink before dinner be acceptable to you?" leading me into an oval entryway which reveals the ocean's view at the back through the sliding double doors.

Mycroft, I say to myself, slow down. Why is the man capable of tying your mind into tiny bits?  
The veranda has been revamped since my last visit with flagstones of grey and blue. Two round tables with the appropriate chairs are waiting for us. We take a seat, and my man, Walter steps up to us.  
Gregory's eyes are wide, soaking in every aspect of this view. From the house to the ocean and the swimming pool over to the east side. The surf is relatively quiet, but it brings with it a soft swishing sound and a breeze that stirs the air.  
"Mojito, for me, and how about you?"  
"I'll have the same, thanks," keeping myself neutral, trying so hard not to be in awe of these surroundings and also trying to read his thoughts concerning myself. He's invited me here for a reason. What the reason is I'll have to let him take the lead. I certainly don't want to upset the apple cart. 

If Gregory was eagerly willing to join me, then I have to assume he finds me friendly, "are you tired? Was your journey adequate?"  
"Yeah, being the sole person on the plane, treated like royalty, what do you expect me to say, and no, I'm not ready to sleep yet."  
"We'll have a lavish dinner out on the patio. It's being prepared now. I took the liberty of asking your secretary your favorite foods."  
He nods, and for quite a while the only sounds are the gentle slap of the waves on the beach.  
It's possible I overstepped my bounds. I surmise that to Gregory, this is intimidating and seems like an assignation. But isn't it Mycroft? I clench my teeth at the mere thought of having intimate relations. Not now. Not ever. So what is it exactly that I am asking of the detective? My thoughts are saved by the arrival of our dinner.

A green Salad with apples, cranberries, and pepitas. Gregory slips his fork in and tastes. "Ah, pumpkin seeds! That's what these are, "referring to the green grains imbedded in the salad.  
A Muscadet white wine is brought to the table and poured. I give Gregory the honor of tasting. His eyebrows raise, " I know nothing of wines. Why don't I just honor your choice," sipping at it, "yes, that does very nicely." Thai pineapple baked salmon over fried white rice, and green garlic beans are next. And a Pinot Gris wine. A crystal bowl with the ice cream of some sort is on the table. I look askance at Mycroft. "A palate cleanser. It's lemon." Taking a spoonful, I'm surprised at the flavor. "Did your chefs make this? I've heard of palate cleansers but never had one." "All the food is prepared in the kitchen and with fresh ingredients." Letting the sorbet coat my tongue, "You never do anything halfway, do you?" "When one has the means, then one can indulge," tapping his mouth with the napkin. I lean back, figuring that the meal is done when a man in a chefs hat steps out onto the patio with a cake. "Strawberry shortcake, sir. And espresso will be out in a minute," bowing his hat tipping down. "Shit. I could eat that whole thing. I love--but you know that." The man dips his head, a slight twist of his lips indicating he's smiling. Mycroft doesn't give out with big, mouth grinning smiles. The chef cuts the cake, giving each an ample piece, and sets a creamer full of a dark substance. "Chocolate syrup, sir," the chef explains, while my grin widens, stretches. "Just ladle it on there," smacking my lips.

Our chatter is light and easy-going, spontaneous, discussing the weather and sports. Although I am not a sports enthusiast, I can follow by nodding my head. Gregory is satisfied with that.  
With the light fading from the sky, the breeze wafting chilly, I ask him if he would like to retire to the sitting room, tea and biscuits.  
"To tell you the truth, I'd rather go to bed and read for a while, that is if you don't mind?"  
I had seen the sly hand to his face to ward off a yawn or two, so it comes as nothing unforeseen, "Of course, not Greg. I'll show you to your room. Your bags have been unpacked", walking ahead of him.

The bedroom is down the hall from mine, and I tell him that and open his door, slightly bending my body to allow him in.  
He's unmoving, at least in his body, but his words betray him.  
"Holy fuck, Mycroft! This is-wow!" And makes his way in to turn this way and that.

Here I am frozen in place, my body revolving from the waist up, staring at a bedroom so large it could house three of the offices at the station.  
A breeze flows across from the open double doors, and the light stirring of the waves can be heard. A tiled patio that leads out to the sandy beach is visible. The shore curves around to give a sample of the glittering lights of the city.

At the center of the pale green and white room is a king-size bed. An armoire, night tables, and a door, from which I can see a large tub. The bathroom.  
The room is, as everything Mycroft, opulent.  
Breathless with the sheer scope of the way he exists, I don't have words.  
Turning to Mycroft, "this is too good for me. I'm living a dream."

"Enjoy your dream," I say, not wanting to destroy the image, "You'll be called to breakfast on the veranda at nine am. If you require anything else, there is a bell pull by the nightstand. Goodnight, Gregory, and as Mycroft closes the door, and I'm feeling excellent about this holiday. My PJs are laid out as if I could jump into them, and one of two books I had for the on-flight read sat next to them.  
Needing to brush my teeth and take a piss, I shake my head in wonderment at the full-size jacuzzi tub with at least two dozen different soaps, shampoos, and necessaries. Washing up, into my PJs and sinking into silk dark green sheets, pulling two of the six pillows around my head and drawing up the down comforter I settle in, listening to the purring of the waves.

* * *

It's morning, and I'm awake and smiling. Lying in bed, even with the glass doors closed, I can hear the murmur of the surf. Well, Greg, time to get your ass up and begin this stroke of luck. Enjoy the vacation no matter the outcome.

Sniffing the brininess of the sea air as I enter onto the veranda, he's sitting, legs crossed, a newspaper in hand.  
"That which you smell is dimethyl sulfide, produced in large part by bacteria that eat dying phytoplankton," not removing his eyes from the daily.  
"Oh, damn! I knew that!"  
He lowers the paper and stares, "you are making sport of me?"  
Instantly regretting my statement, I descend on the cushioned wood chair and lock eyes with him.  
"Forgive me. I should have kept my mouth shut."  
jokes  
He tilts his head, "No, Detective. Do not assume that. Understand I do not know how to make witticisms."  
"You and your brother are so much alike. He doesn't understand how to clown around either."

Self-conscious now that the detective is at my table, I realize I've placed him in a situation he's not sure of.  
Folding the newspaper and sliding it under my chair I pour the man coffee.  
"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" What a pointless question to ask!  
"Forgive me. I am not used to the superficial conversation of everyday life. Do partake of the breakfast items on the sideboard."  
It's then I notice the table with chafing dishes and become aware of my stomach rumbling. Walking to it and picking up a plate," Mycroft. Don't apologize for anything. We are both out of our comfort zones," lifting the various covers and between the smells and looks, I pile my plate high with goodies.  
"I'm not used to your highbrow ways, and I'm sure you look down on me." Why did I say that? Even with my plate full, I cannot return to the table to face him.  
Gregory has spoken his mind. This is his real thoughts, and I have to change his feelings.  
"Gregory. Come sit, eat and let me clarify my reason for your visit," placing my hands flat and as he takes his seat and lifts his fork for his first bite," I am not a person to have friends. I do appreciate all you've done for my brother."  
He begins to say something, but I stop him with a gentle touch of my hand to his and withdraw it just as quickly.  
"We are from differing backgrounds, and that might make for embarrassing situations. Be that as it may, I would want to pursue a continuation of this--fellowship. If that is to your liking?" My heart skips while I wait for his response. Would I have to call my car to take him to the airport?  
He continues to place fork to mouth as if speculating on such a request.  
The import of this moment does not escape me. On the one hand, I welcome his being and on the other, I am terrified because of the unfamiliar emotions he evokes.  
His utensil on the empty plate, he brings his napkin to his face," great food. I didn't know how hungry I was until I inhaled everything on the buffet."  
He leans back, his face blank, but I can ascertain that he's curious.  
"Mycroft Holmes, you are a bit of a puzzle for me. I can't understand why you would pick me to be a friend, of any sort, but--okay, I'll bite."  
And with that, he grins, a wide-open grin and says," what's next, my friend?"  
Gathering my wits, "the city has a plethora of museums and wonderful outdoor eateries."  
"Good," he says," let's go. Lead on."

* * *

One evening after dinner I have to send out relevant emails and once done I stepped out on the veranda. The only glow of light is a small beacon at the pool and the shine of the quarter moon.  
There's a stirring at the nearest end of the pool, a figure I barely make out. It's Gregory. His back to me--and he's nude, drying himself off with a towel. He becomes aware that I'm standing in the doorway and stiffens, the towel becoming a skirt around his waist.  
I'm struck with an unexpected hunger. A hunger to embrace him.  
With great effort, I stare out at the ocean, mute.  
Greg says, his embarrassment clear in his voice, "sorry, Mycroft, I didn't think you were coming out, so I--you know--skinny-dipped."  
Taking a step forward, hesitant as to what to do, he asks, "Have you ever skinny dipped?"  
My heart is racing, and I can't imagine what to say or do. Do I turn towards the inside of the house and ignore what I saw?  
"Did you hear me?" Chuckling away his confusion, "have you gone swimming naked?"  
"No, I have not," my voice choked.  
"Why not?"  
I can't answer. I can't say much. He turns his face off to one side and continues to talk, "there's no one around except us. Come on. Give it a try. The ocean is where its best. "  
"No, sorry." and turn, stepping inside the door, and suddenly something snaps inside, and I rotate back.  
"Yes, I would," and I turn out the only light except for the moon.  
He turns away, giving me the privacy I need. But even so, I'm aware of his body a few feet away. The sand is cool and soft under my feet, and I shiver with the feel of the open air on my body. It's more than that. It's the knowing that Greg is somewhere behind me and I'm not understanding what he will be doing.  
I'm waist high, the saltwater lapping at every pore when I hear a splash and Gregory comes up from under the water to stand in front.  
I haven't looked directly at him. Can he see my cheeks are blooming a rosy red? His eyes never meet my face but keep a steady look on my chest, "let's swim down to the pier, and come back."  
We race each other twice to the pier and back, laughing when we finally stop, out of breath. I'm invigorated! Never in my years would I have thought to divulge myself of clothing to romp in the ocean! How am I able to rid myself of the shame of my body to step out of the water to enter the house? I hesitate, waist-deep.  
Greg, discerning my unwillingness to reveal the lower part of my body, walks in front and leaves me with the sight of his buttocks and his strong thighs.  
Don't know whether it's the breeze on my skin or the vision of his naked rear that has me cross my arms around my body, and shiver slightly.  
"Come on out. I'm dressed," he yells.  
His back facing me while seated at the table.  
"Take your time. I've poured whiskey for you."  
"That was noteworthy enough that I would undertake it again," drying off and dressing, all the while still visualizing that bareback.  
My self ready I slip onto a chair, lift my glass and find I'm actually enjoying this moment.  
"You're no stranger to the art of nude swimming, are you?"  


Gregory chuckles, and I know my turn of phrase has him amused.  
"My aunt and uncle owned a house in the country, and as children, we'd visit during the summer with my parents. A small pond was at the far end of the property; we could play there for hours. If I was alone, I skinny-dipped. Of course, with my sisters in and around, it was hard. I did get caught a few times. Once- oh, never mind," he turns his head away.  
I'm delighted to witness his unease. It's a piece of him I'm growing to relish. My face dips, suggesting without declaring it aloud that he should resume. Or perhaps I shouldn't pry.  
"Okay, if you must know. But don't say I didn't warn you. One of my sisters, who shall remain nameless, one of the older ones, caught me one day. She kept taunting me to get out and let her see my penis. She told me she wouldn't leave. I was damn cold by then and got out."  
He squirms in the seat, his legs cross, remembering.  
"As soon as she looked down, I became- - hard. Without a word, she took me in hand."  
His face contorts, "hell, Mycroft, I was fourteen! What did she expect?"  
"It was inevitable, wasn't it? Do you blame yourself, Gregory?" There is more to this narrative. Not a muscle moves. I am patient. Will he speak further of this or stop?  
His head in his hands, his voice is muffled. Painful.  
"Yes, there were more times she did it-- and it--." His head rises, the anxiety written.  
"Wow! What the fuck made me tell you that? I'm sorry. That's just not like me."  
"Confession time for myself," knowing it would ease Gregory for me to unburden in a similar manner.  
"The cooks' daughter was sixteen and a vivacious but unruly young lady. I was sitting in the garden under my favorite tree reading. At thirteen, I read anything I could find. She found me there, sat next to me, and we began a conversation. Her fingers found their way onto my thigh and then onto my crouch. To shorten the story, she raised me and took me down quite spectacularly. More than once."  
Greg is hunched over laughing, "I love that turn of a phrase. Raised me and took me down. I'll have to remember that." Still bubbling, he says, "I wonder how many of us as kids have that experience."  
Again, the subject becomes more neutral. But we have broken some sort of barrier.

* * *

Our arrival in London is uneventful, and my driver deposits Gregory at the NSY as he directs. I already feel his absence and text him.  
_Gregory. It was a pleasure sharing experiences in Lisbon.MH_  
_I feel the same. And I'll have you know I consider you a spoiled brat. Albeit a nice one(g)_  
I'm at a loss how to react. I believe he's teasing. Not my field of expertise.  
_If such is the situation then are you implying--MH_  
_Spoil me rotten Mister Holmes. And please keep in touch_

* * *

Spring in London. How has my work so consumer me that the days and evenings have liquefied together? Melted into one long and endless onslaught of engagements, discussions, and administrative work. 

One day, a day that appears the world will operate without my vigilance, I'm inclining on the limo, the door wide, anticipating Gregory's exit from the station. I'm touched to his face light up. "Dinner?" Expecting past any hope, he won't be irritated at this very late call. He's calling his goodnights to his associates and ignoring their sly comments.

My joy at seeing Mycroft cannot be subdued by the knowing side looks and the sly, out of the corner remarks. My heart is racing, and I sidestep him to duck into the car. He follows, closing the door.  
Adjusting his trouser legs, he's not looked at me at all. Brushing a non-existent piece of lint, "Thai or Italian?"  
"Thai. And by the way, hello, Mycroft! " Was I too sarcastic? "Oh, yes. Hello, Gregory!" Was I too snappish? 

* * *

The restaurant is crowded and seated in the middle is John and Sherlock. I can feel Mycroft tense and know this situation could turn sour quickly.  
John, being ever gracious, beckons us over. But Sherlock's look is anything but welcoming.  
" What a surprise! Why not join us at our table," John says.  
If Mycroft could get any taller, he would. He's standing so straight, frozen that I bet I could push him and he'd fall to the ground.  
"We'll sit at a different table. I'm sure my brother would be happier that way."  
Sherlock meantime has a shit grin on him, his eyes bright, ready for a takedown.  
"Mycroft, your heart is showing. Be careful, Lestrade, Mycroft chews people up. Romance is not his cup of tea."  
John smacks Sherlock in the arm.  
I want to punch out the younger brother. What is wrong with him? Why doesn't he let up on Mycroft?  
Mycroft signals a waiter to lead us to a table as far as we can be from the other two men.  
"Forgive my brother."  


Laughing to ease the dramatics I have to consider Mycroft first.  
"Oh, believe me, I know. Working on any case with the great Sherlock can be daunting. It's hard to keep my crew from taking him out back someplace and pummeling him."  
I acknowledge that my brother's eyes are on myself, piercing my inner thoughts. His deducing capabilities are far better than mine. At that one look, he would have comprehended there was more to my relationship with Greg than appeared.

We're in the midst of strawberry shortcake and coffee when Sherlock appears, that absurd twitch to his mouth," Be wary, Lestrade."  
Why these theatrics between them? Is it so impossible to say nothing rather than stir the pot? But, I forget that it's Sherlock I'm thinking about.  
Shifting in my seat, I can't bring myself to look at Gregory, but he must be reassured, must understand our newfound bond, I say," I consider our friendship precious."  
Greg stretches out his hand and casually touches my fingers, then draws away.  
My napkin to my lips, I'm figuring out how to address the next problem, and without restraint, I let it out, "I will not be in the country for the foreseeable future."  
"My, that's about as decisive as the weather forecast here in London. Will you be able to text me?. Or call? Let me know how things are going?" Not too sure whether to ask him where or what for. Might only get a stillness that would only complicate the fine line we tread.  
"Gregory, I'll attempt my best. Nothing is a guarantee, is it?"

* * *

I do manage an occasional text but cannot find the proper time to interact by phone. My world is made brighter by the image of the person waiting for me at home. Sometimes doubt assails me. Would he wait? In my line of work, I cannot predict when I will be called out to another country, and if time will allow calls. I think I am only making excuses. It's frightening to me, this new intimacy. 

* * *

_Gregory, will be in London Monday. Dinner Tuesday or whatever is convenient.MH_  
_My turn to visit with my daughter. And meetings. How about the next Wednesday_  
_Would you consider pizza?MH_  
_LOL. my pleasure. pizza and beer._  
_Seven on Wednesday.MH_

* * *

The second I walk into the Italian cafe, I understand I am overdressed. A three-piece suit is not the attire to be wearing for the eating of pizza. Gregory's little quirky smile is also enough to let me know I've overdone it. I remove my jacket and tie and open two buttons on my shirt. It's still not the best, but at least it's some sort of better.  
"Dom, one pie, two slices plain, two mushroom and onions, two pepperoni, and two the works. And beer for us please," deciding it's best not to say anything about Mycrofts attire. I can tell he understands. My feelings are double-edged. On the one hand, I'm so glad to see him, but on the other, I can't decide if it's wise.

Not a dozen words have been spoken, and Gregory is plainly on edge.  
"A charming little place," observing a dozen tables set very plainly with red and white checkered tablecloths, a yellow glass housing a candle.  
"Quaint," listening to the obviously recorded Italian music coming from a loudspeaker.  
"This place has some of the best pizza in the area. I hope you like it. By the way, can I ask how your trip was and maybe even where you went?" "Fruitful, thank you. Too hot for my liking. The individuals were mostly stuffy and older." Concluding the conversation of my whereabouts I cannot decide what to say next.  
I'm saved by the pizza being set down, and each of us given paper plates. Really? No utensils but an abundance of napkins. This is going to be an experience. Patiently sitting I wait for Gregory to show how to eat this round, absurdly obscene thing called food.  
Taking up my paper plate, Greg makes sure one of each sort is on that disposable bit of nonsense. A ceramic vessel of any sort would uplift this cafe. And--washable.  
"Try each one and see which you like best," as Gregory is delivering the same onto his plate.  
"To a good meal," holding up his glass of beer, and I bring mine towards his.  
I wait, hands in my lap to understand how to eat the gooey, cheesy, slice.  
"Finger food Mycroft. And if you're afraid of getting that expensive suit dirty, tuck a napkin under your collar."  
At my disdained look he bubbles with laughter.  
"Come on, Myc. Loosen up."  
"Myc? No one has ever dared--,"  
"I just did. What'cha gonna do about it?" he asks almost as if he's drunk.  
Do I tell him how offensive I think it is? Why is it offensive to me, just as quickly changing my mind. In reality, it sounds appealing, coming from his mouth. I give a slight nod and instead say, " Please do instruct me on the finer points of eating this--delicacy."  
"Observe," as he picks up the pizza and folds it in half, then bites at the tiny end.  
Following Greg's lead, I only ingest the first bite of each of the slices and decide I like the onions and mushrooms the best.

* * *

In between bites we lend ourselves to small talk and the evening progresses very swiftly.

* * *

Traveling again I have only text, Gregory, twice, and a My department has offered me a trip to New York for a special occasion. It's now summer, and I haven't seen Greg since the spring. Phone calls and short texts are spaced out, and it seems lacking. The personal face to face is much more agreeable.

* * *

It's good to see that while away, my two assistants have gotten the dreaded administrative work out of my hair. Other than some quick tidying up of my desk, there is nothing left to do. I hear the ring of the phone, and within seconds Anthea pokes her head in," your boss is on the phone," and withdraws.  
Who could she mean? Answering it, I find out and also the reason for the call.  
I've been told I'm traveling again and this time to New York City. I'm not going alone if I can help it. This project could be one that Gregory would enjoy immensely.

"Hey, welcome back Myc."  
His voice, even the shortening of my name a welcome feeling.  
"It's shortlived. I'm afraid"  
"Oh?"  
I'm tempted to say farewell and hang up. But, no. That was the old you. Let's do it differently this time.  
His disappointment rings loud even over the speaker.  
"I am traveling to New York City for three days and have the use of a yacht for one night. It will be on the Fourth of July. I've only witnessed it on the telly. Would you like to join me?" I could tell my voice was prickling with excitement, and holding the phone is hardly possible they are shivering so much.  
"Wow, wow! That's something spectacular! A yacht, you say! Yes, I would fucking love to join you, I mean, well, you know what I mean," laughing.  
"Information will be forwarded to you.  
"I've already got my bags packed," giggling like a silly child. He hangs up.

* * *

John Watson, Sherlock's partner, of all people, pays me a surprise visit to the station. It's never the one, always the two together.  
"And why the visit without Sherlock? Is he in trouble?"  
Finding a chair and wheeling it up to the desk he leans on it.  
I sense something of a conspiratorial thing going on. And as to what I am going to find out now.  
"I meant for Sherlock to be absent at the moment."  
"Oh?"  
I sit up straight, "Something not right, John?"  
"What I want to say to you does not need the ears of that person. He'll only blow it out of proportion and drive me nuts."  
Taking a long breath, he continues, " you know that it took a long time before we became an actual couple?"  
"Everyone at NSY thought--, "twisting a pencil between my fingers, wondering where this is going.  
"I won't go into details just keep it at the basic of the how," he says with a twist to his mouth.  
"But, one evening, I had watched him from across the room. He had taken his usual stance at the window, staring out. I walked up to him, spun him around, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and --I pounced."  
He leans back, the chair rolling slightly away.  
Giving me the room, and time, to contemplate what he just uttered.  
"You pounced?"  
At first, the meaning isn't clear, and then--I get it.  
John grins when he sees the dawning of his words play across my face.  
"I didn't bring Sherlock along because he's already making wisecracks about the two of you. He's noticed your little side glances."  
" I was afraid of that," taking a sigh and shaking my head in frustration.  
"You do know that the Holmes boys have serious relationship problems? I had walked on eggshells for years, afraid to do anything. I reasoned that it was better to maintain some friendship and be near him than lose him entirely," he quiets a moment to let that sink in.  
"One day it all came to a head when, and," pointing his finger at me, "mind you, I had not a drop to drink, I stood up and walked to his chair. Without stopping, I leaned in a placed a kiss on his lips and quickly stepped away. Afraid he would punch me out," humming at the thought.  
"He upped and ran to his bedroom."  
Sighing heavily and shifting in the seat, "I was all set to pack when he came back-- and well, that was it. So, Greg, I'm telling you to find a time and pounce. Give it a try. You've known each other how long?"  
"Almost three years now," in deep thought.  
"Think about it," as he gets up, shakes my hand, and closes the door behind him. I certainly have to consider this approach. It could be a good plan while on the yacht.

* * *

A rental Mercedes car drops us at the New York Yacht Club dock, and we walk to the end of the pier.  
Holy, fucking shit, Myc! It's a traveling house!" not caring what words I use or the not so cool way I look.  
"It's only seventy feet, Greg," climbing up the gangplank, watching the crew prepare to launch.  
"Only seventy fucking feet! You say it like it's a one-bedroom flat. Whoops! Sorry for the language, but when I'm at a loss, that's what I do."

The captain introduces himself along with various other members of the staff. Greg and I are on the deck watching the sailors untie, and push off the dock.

We're shown to our separate staterooms, and our bags are deposited.  
I'm so overwhelmed that my mouth hangs open and I feel like a little child whos been given a bowl of candies and doesn't know which to pick first.  
"If you will proceed to the salon, we have petite sandwiches and liquid refreshments. Dinner is at six unless you gentleman has other preferences."  
"No, thank you, Miles. That hour is fine," Mycrofts hand on my back propelling me up the stairs and into what I would call a parlor.  
Along one side of the room, the starboard is a long table laden with bite-size sandwiches, bite-size fruit, cookies, and candies. And wine.  
Piling my plate high, I seize the nearest high back chair and find out it rotates. I can watch the rivers goings-on. Mycroft joins me in the next chair, placing two fluted glasses on the table between us.

* * *

We take our places on the deck under the awning, the sun too strong to bake in it.  
The river traffic seems to fascinate both of us as the conversation is light.  
Greg points at several of the buildings, identifying them by name sometimes. He's done his homework. His excitement is catching as he comments on the barges, tugs and smaller vessels on the river.

* * *

Dinner is held in the salon and consists of a tossed pear salad, lemon garlic buttered seared scallops, roasted potatoes With radicchio and snap peas.  
Greg hums as his mouth filled with his first bites.  
"God darn, this is so good, Mycroft. You're spoiling the shit out of me."  
"I hope to continue."  
"We'll have dessert outside on the deck," Mycroft tells the waiter.

* * *

There are few clouds overhead as the day turns to the evening.  
A hot fudge sundae, vanilla ice cream with creme-filled mini donuts, with, of course, champagne. Everything is going as planned, and Gregory is wide-eyed.  
As for myself, this brings into sharp focus on how the rest of the world lives. I've been wrapped in my cocoon for too long. Inside myself, I'm chuckling and enjoying every hmm and oohh from Gregory.  
We're in silence as the world turns dark. The lights of the city blink on. Sitting our lounge chairs, well sated, we hardly say anything. These euphoric moments are not to be squandered.

* * *

The music, the lights, the sounds of delight from the boats near us, and the audience on shore are mostly dimmed by the pyrotechnics blowing up overhead.  
Witnessed only on the telly, I'm as awestruck as the lovely police officer who stands up, leaning on the railing.  
It seems the lights, sounds, colors are happening all around us and our yells and sighs echo along with the thousands of others.

* * *

It's over, and the vessels, large and small, begin blowing horns and whistles. Both of us are standing at the railing, unwilling to let the moment go.

Now, Greg. Pounce! This moment might not come again.

Gregory sidles up against me, his hand rounds my neck, with the other around my waist he attacks my lips in a non-gentle way. My surprise, my breath, my insides, do a turn. The seconds continue in a blur as I realize I'm kissing back.

I push him off and plummet headlong to my stateroom out of breath and shaking. No, I won't, can't let this happen. We are friends. He can't want that of me. I cannot. I cannot.

* * *

When Mycroft runs inside, I know I've made a mistake. I pounced, but it didn't work. Shit. Now what, as I sit on the lounge chair, head in hands. He was kissing back. He was beginning to give. So, what is going on? Why run? What is he frightened of?

The remainder of the trip, the car rides, the plane ride, we speak in stilted sentences and only when needed.

* * *

Weeks progress with neither of us doing anything to resolve the issues.  
" Mycroft, " my assistant Anthea says after watching me mope about, "whatever happened in New York between you and Lestrade, and can it be mended?"  
I have issues with close relationships, as you know. My work won't allow me to--," Refusing to listen, "that's bull, and you know it. You turn away anyone, man or woman, who wants to get close and even if I don't know the reason it certainly has nothing to do with being an agent," and she departs from my office.

* * *

It's well after midnight, and I'm rolling side to side in bed, my mind on Gregory.  
I decide to be realistic and honest and permit him to know why I take this route. Not a natural conclusion to come to, and with great alarm at exposing my history. But, Greg's not a stranger anymore, is he?  
I cannot wait any longer. This must be spoken of now. Even though the hour is late and also though he may throw me out.  
After some debate, I had abandoned the usual suit and put on a green shirt and black trousers. Not at ease without more armor, I remove the jacket off the hangar.

I call for my car and drive to his flat, holding back, once at his doorstep, from knocking. Am I doing the right thing? I rap quietly at first and then louder. All the while my internal decision is to turn away.  
I step back, make a half-turn, but a sleepy, tousled hair Greg stands in the doorway in his pajamas.  
"Mycroft, what--"  
"May I come in even though the hour is late. I have something weighty on my mind. I need to enlighten you on my actions and my reasoning behind them."  
I can hear the tremor in my voice. If he turns me away I'm doomed.  
"Sure, um, sit. No, wait. I got home from a late conference, and all my papers are scattered on the chairs."  
It's not only folders but clothes that gets lifted and shuffled to a chair to make space to sit on the sofa.

Gregory, turning to me, "hang on," and hastily runs down the hall. I hear water running and assume he's brushing his teeth.  
He returns, still in his pajamas but has thrown a plaid dressing gown over himself.  
He looks around, his brow furrowed, to see me still on my feet.  
"I'm sorry. Should I clear off a seat, or would the sofa be good?"  
To dodge any more difficulties, I promptly sit on the sofa, albeit on edge, legs tight together, hands primly in my lap. How do I commence? With each breath I take, I'm ready to bolt for the front door. But--it must escape my head. Must it?

It must be of great importance if Mycroft is in my parlor at such a late hour. And--with no tie. No vest. I observe the way he's settled himself, closed off. His body is drawn into a tight coil. He slyly glances to the right, to the door of my flat. Ready to spring up. To take flight.

"Tea, Mycroft? Or something stronger?"  
Without moving any paraphernalia from the chairs, and thinking, well, if I did it would seem like I didn't want to be near him. And I sense this is not the time for that. 

"No. Consider sitting next to me please, " as he shifts his weight over, so he's canted to see me next to him. To be face to face.  
Although to be honest he is not really eyeing me but staring slightly off to my left.

"Gregory, what I'm about to relate to you has never been spoken out loud. To no one, do you understand?"  
He dips his head, and I squeeze my hands together, the knuckles turning white, my nails cutting into the flesh.  
"Don't disrupt my discourse.No expression with either an inclination of the head or flicker of an eye. Sit as though mummified,"  
"The stage is yours, Mycroft." Deliberately having my eyes aimed at the carpet, sitting with both hands tucked between my thighs.

I feel the universe falling away. Presenting a vast pit to which I am descending into. With a significant exhale, a tremor within me, and with a slight sheen of sweat beneath my arms, I speak.

******

"I was seventeen. A young, naive, childish man not trained in the forms of social graces. Most of my young life I spent with tutors. My father was a strict disciplinarian.  
It was with a great unease that I found myself in Kings College in a private dormitory. Thrust into a style of life I didn't know how to navigate, a camaraderie I could not attain, I was shoved away. Perfectly content, even with the random teasing I took to my studies."

Pausing, as if afraid to continue his fingers twisted, and his knuckles were distinctly visible.

"Vincent," almost choking on the name, "Vincent was his name. The son of an ambassador who had met my parents. They were frequent visitors to his house. Guests were not a normal component in the Holmes family diet. He was the life of the party, as you would say. He was constantly greeting, invariably a slap on the back, a hug. His arm would snake around my shoulders, and as appalled as I was by the contact, I could not avoid it. I was captivated, charmed, and overwhelmed with his presence. The result resulted in a--, well--I fell in love. And we became--—my first, male or female. I won't go into the details of it, no need. I was in a totally unique environment. I became a member of his entourage. It was assumed that I belonged to Vincent."

The room warps, twists in on itself. I feel sickly, and must lean my head upon the back of the sofa.

"One weekend--one weekend--," not capable of going further. The visions pour into the foreground of my consciousness, producing with it the horror, the panic. Even now I have to tamp down the hysteria threatening to spring to my throat.

Whispering, trying desperately to gain control, "I believe tea would be helpful, Gregory."  
I require to settle myself back together. And I'm resolved to permit this tragedy to unfold into the air. To have Gregory concede that I am an evil character. Someone who should be walked away from.

"You know, Mycroft, you don't have to--," he stands, bends over me, disquietude and worry tracing a pattern on his face and body.

"No, I must confess. Must have you recognize that which you are dealing with."

* * *

I hear the rattling of the tea kettle and the cups and saucers, and I locate the bathroom and pee. Washing my hands, I stare into the mirror; my face is drained of color. The soap slides out of my fingers and hits the floor. I bend, the room whirls, and I grasp the toilet bowl to steady myself. Slowly rising I proceed to the sofa.

* * *

Gregory lowers the teapot and cups and pours, as we assume the same positions as before.

"That- that weekend both our parents were in Italy for a conference. Friday night, Vincent drove me to his house. I was overjoyed. Possessing him to myself alone was something rarely had. We had only just stepped in when Vincent begged to have a few of our classmates for an intimate gathering. Just a few, he said, delivering that gaze that perpetually melted my insides. The ones he suggested were gay and knew about us. Four of them," I pause, taking a sip of tea, swirling it in my mouth as if to cleanse it.

The closeness to Gregory is hugely unsettling. I rise and occupy the armchair opposite Gregory, putting the cup on the carpet, the liquid cooling, I understood this was the moment of truth.

"Soon after arriving they located the whiskey and opened two bottles. Not an imbiber myself, I poured a glass, took a half taste, and moved it to a table. Just to seem social. I asserted to Vincent that the consumption of the liquid was getting out of hand, but he waved me off. I attempted to retreat to the bedroom, but Vincent held me in a vise grip. Jeffrey was reciting gay jokes. One was about the size of penises, and he opened his fly and drew out his to prove how large he was. He was erect and goaded everyone to release themselves. Vincent, leering, opened his trousers. Still holding me in a tight grasp, and with his free hand, he tugged at my zipper. All the time, whispering endearments. He begged me to go with the game. I was Vincent's pawn. I reluctantly consented. I attempted to--although studying it later, I didn't try sufficiently hard enough to prevent all that happened next," stifling back a whimper. 

Stopping to catch my breath, I look into Gregory's face. Neutral, although his eyes glimmer with warmth and understanding. No judging.

" I performed alongside them for Vincent, and solely for him. But even though all were hardened, I remained the solitary one not upright. It was then--."  
I squinted into the lamp's glowing light. Anything to keep from seeing the grief and anguish in Gregory. 

Gregory is onto his feet, and my hand flutters up, stopping his movement. Another breath, almost a sob passes my lips.  
"Please sit where you were. I can't resume if you're close."

" I turned away, intending to leave the room. Too terrified to continue hearing their mocking. Someone began taunting Vincent regarding his chicken-lover. In a sing-song, they started a chant--chicken lover, chicken lover. I ran down the hall, my trousers around my ankles. Vincent tackled me, lifted me, and while I tried to fend him off, he threw me on a bed. I assumed it was his room. Accompanying him in, shouting and taunting, the others watched as his mouth surrounded my penis. I fought and implored him, over and over, to stop.  
They pressed me down, permitting Vincent to have--."

I stop. Choke out a cry. I can't continue. I stride to the window, stare, observing nothing, not even the lights of the city. 

Finish this Mycroft. Open up and release it all. And if Gregory prefers to abandon you, then you understand where your future is not.

"Someone, I don't know who, squeezed my cheeks to open my mouth, and I choked as a result of the whiskey invading my throat. I remember Vincent pulling my trousers off, and he delivered words I cannot forget, _'fellows, have at him. Let's see who can make him come.'_ The room pitched and swayed and sliding in and out of my view, images, naked ones." 

"Damn, shit, Mycroft. Don't do this to yourself. Don't go--." 

Ignoring him.  
" All grew into a blur. I ejaculated into someone's mouth. Cocks were inserted into my mouth; my jaw pulled open. Laughter and groans were what my shattered mind heard. I struggled, kicking, biting, punching, but I was like rubber, the booze having its effect. Pinched, slapped, punched in the face, stomach, arms. I could not escape. I was conscious that Vincent was a participant, allowing this as much as entering into the idiocy."

I presume Greg can smell the horror flowing from myself. Reliving this memory anew, dragging it from my mind.  
My shirt is awash in my sweat, my hands slick, my brow dripping.  
My limbs are ready to give out. I wobble to the nearest chair and instinctively drop down as if I a rag doll.

"Okay. Stop now; I've heard enough. Dear fucking god," Gregory's cutting voice pierces my internal agony.

"No, no, have to persevere. You must know."

I remove a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe my brow and hands.  
" They turned me on my stomach, and my cheeks were spread. Vaguely Vincent's voice came through the haze. _'Hey guys, we've never ass fucked. Let me have the first shot.'_ How could I forget that! What I knew as fingers penetrated my anus--and more than the digits. And my mouth was, and--and--."  
"Get off me! Stop," thrashing around, beating on the person holding me down.

"Mycroft, it's me, Greg! It's me! I'm only trying to calm--."  
My eyes focus on the body rising over me. Can't have him so close, so intimate, and instinct stronger than rationalization grips, and I fling him to the ground.  
"I must continue. I must!" Shouting! Fists pounding the chair, shoed feet pounding the floor as if I'm throwing a tantrum. An outburst concerning this shocking event that has kept me in its grip all these years. 

Gregory crawls to his seat, rises and brushing off his clothes he sits. Frozen, frightened, not recognizing what to do or how to support. Shaking off the rage, I comb my fingers through my hair, "I was the focus of a gang rape. God, how I tried to fight! But it was the liquor, force-fed, that kept me immobile. How many penises-- multiple times--I don't know. Again and again. The laughing, the groan of their sex, their--coming."

I'm sobbing. Nauseated, I gag but come up empty. I feel faint. Inside I'm madly screaming.

* * *

I can't help myself and rise to tiptoe behind Mycroft. Hesitantly I reach to his shoulder and stroke. His shirt is saturated with his distress. Hatred, disgust, anger, pity, sympathy, surge through me. If I could, I would hold him close, caressing it away, out of his memory. Never to be brought to mind again

* * *

"Gregory, go away. Don't touch me," shrugging his hand off and speaking harshly, too loud.

He moves back, his backside just touching the cushion of the sofa bending as near to me as plausible. Concern, sympathy. He leans his elbows on his knees, and his attention is all mine.

"I blacked out and awoke to see daylight through the blinds. Vincent entered the room, provided me with a glass of water, and my clothes. _'Get up. I'll drive you to your house.'_ He voiced no apologies, no concern. He didn't even wait until I closed my front door. It took me days to recover from the bruises and lacerations, and sitting was not an easy task." I look at--nothing--.  
"I went back to classes before my parents returned. I was shunned by the five. Yes, Vincent particularly. " Needing a moment to compose myself, I end with, "that was my only encounter with sex. And yes, to my utter shame, I orgasmed throughout that--." 

Fatigued, emptied I utter one last sentence, "No one has ever-- since--." 

* * *

The world has crashed. So repelled by what I've heard. How could anyone? No wonder this man is withdrawn from the softer side of humans. Speaking in a hushed tone, " Did you tell someone? Your parents? The school?"  
I glance at Gregory, and with a grimace, "All were from well-placed families. It would have been denied and hushed up. Vincent would lay an arm about me as if shielding and state that he wouldn't tolerate anything to happen like that. My parents were too involved being government agents and, again, would not have been receptive to exposing this crime."  
"Dear fucking God, Mycroft, no wonder you're the way you are! Have you gone to therapy?"  
"Word reaches ears in this society, and if it ever leaked, my position would be jeopardized. So no."  
"But it was not your fault!" incredulous that he hasn't sought help.

My throat is dry, my body is disgustingly tired, worn, I can't stand up. My eyes close. Oppressive silence.

"Don't misjudge me Greg Lestrade, I have a heartfelt desire for you, might consider it love of a sort. But I can't. I'm a broken man. I'm remorseful for this and for directing you to the likelihood of romance. Let me leave, and we will never address this again."

Pulling myself out of the chair, I listlessly start for the door when Greg leaps up and runs, placing himself between myself and the means of escape.  
"No, it's not that easy. You can't toss away the emotions, the affection we have. There must be some way to work on this. To be honest. Mycroft, I don't care if I never touch you. I want to be with you. To be your companion in whatever manner you want."  


"Let me go, Gregory before I crumble before you. Pleaaasseee, let me depart," weakly speaking.

Greg steps aside and his voice choking back emotions, "I'll let you go, but you must consider this. I'll repeat it. I want you, Mycroft Holmes, in whatever capacity you see fit. I won't call or text you. It's up to you to decide if this relationship will be or not."  
With that, he steps away, I open the latch, rush into my car, and never looking out the side window I go home. 

* * *

Sleep presents a wide berth for so long. The torture of that sick weekend rises to haunt, whether day or night. Sometimes it's the liquor that comforts, other occasions I lose myself in horror films. Playing them over and over, not really witnessing them. It's the blood that settles into my psyche. Deep, red blood. Oozing out as sure as if it was mine.

* * *

I haven't been able to shake the moments spent listening to Mycroft. I attempt to visualize, even try to feel the horror of it. Last night seems like miles away. But it was only last night that he spilled out his darkest memories.

* * *

"There's a visitor in your office, " as I enter from the outside world into the police station.  
Sally smirks, "not going to like this.  
Oh damn! So tired and worn out I don't have any patience for nonsense today.  
To my annoyance and disgust, it's Sherlock. I don't need his arrogance, his watchful eyes reading my every nuance.  
"What do you want? Come to the point because I have no patience for your shenanigans," throwing my coat towards the hook on the wall, missing it.  
I can't be bothered to pick up the garment and leave it crumpled on the floor.  
Sherlock places his hand in his trouser pocket and tosses a slip of paper on the desk.  
"The key code to the back gate and the back door of his house. Use it. And quickly."  
His hand lights on my shoulder, a gentle pat, and he's gone.  
I did say to Mycroft that I'd leave him alone but, if Sherlock is giving up this information, and if Sherlock has stated 'quickly' then the urgency of the matter cannot wait.

* * *

So this is how a thief in the night feels, I sort of laugh to myself. The back iron gate doesn't give off a sound, No squeak, or grating against the hinges. Tiptoeing to the only door that is straight in front of me, I can't stop the giggles. Get a grip, Gregory. It's not like he'll call the cops. And that evokes an even bigger chuckle which I suppress in the arm of my coat.  
The door opens easily enough, and I'm in a large pantry. Shelves of foodstuffs line the walls. A small nightlight glimmers in the area, but ahead of me, there's definitely a room that's well lit. I have no choice. No other way to go but forward.

The kitchen! And standing by a counter is Mycroft himself. An apron covers him from head to toe.

I timidly knock on a cabinet and his eyes open wide as his head turns to the sound.  
I expect him to pitch me out on my ass, upset and threatening.  
Unanticipated is his shrug, and he carries on with the beating of eggs.  
Okay, if you're going to play this little game, whatever it is I will go along.  
Selecting to perch on a stool, I watch as he rolls out the dough for whatever pastry he's making. I didn't know that he could bake. And knowing this genius, I bet he does a bang-up job of it.  
There's no speech between us. Only the sound of our breathing and his banging of pans. Should I stay or leave?  
He gives no indication either way. No sign that I'm even in this space. Just does his thing.

He's filled the two pies with a strawberry filling, sets it into the oven, and with the slightest of nods to me, leaves the kitchen--and me.  
Guess that's a hint for me to go, and I exit the same way I entered.

* * *

And then the strangest dance begins. Each night, for two weeks straight, key in hand, I step into Mycrofts world. Whether he's reading, working at his desk on some unknown political business, cooking, or watching telly. No words. I pour the tea, always warmed and waiting, and partake of any delicacy he has sitting on the counter or table.

My phone boops and I recognize the number as Mycrofts assistant. Anthea informs me that her boss has been sent to France. She'll text me when he's home. I'm disappointed. He, at least, could have sent a text. Why his secretary?

* * *

France! One would think that Paris's atmosphere would cancel all contemplation of life at home. But, concentration comes hard. Amid a five-course dinner or a discussion of world policy, he's at my side.

I had grown accustomed to his quiet presence in my house. Yes, in the beginning, I was infuriated with my brother. How dare he presume to supply Gregory with my personal house key! How reassuring! How familiar it became. I listened for his approach eagerly. Try as I might, I could discover no declarations, no means of saying my thank you for his restraint. His only purpose was to share a portion of my world.

* * *

The evenings drag by without my daily visit to Mycroft. I've held to his code and not called or texted him.

London's underworld has been quiet, and so it takes me by surprise to get a call about a murder at one of the docks. When I arrive and duck under the police tape, right in the middle of it all is Sherlock and John.  
It's business as usual, with Sherlock deducing and John doing his best to keep up. Sherlock concludes and pushes me off to one side away from the crowd of police.

"My brother's an idiot. He's pining."  
Only the Holmes boys would use that word.  
"He's arriving home on Saturday," thrusting a credit sized card into my hand, and strides away. John turns, and a thumbs-up is the last thing I see before they disappear.  
It's the new key code for Mycroft's house. 

* * *

Not wanting to barge in as soon as he's home, I wait till Monday night to enter. This time I'm caught out by his manservant who points in the direction of the office. I smile. Everyone seems to be on my side.  
For some unforeseen reason, I don't plunge in but wait in the doorway.

Mycroft is startled to see me, and shakes his head and sighs, "Gregory, please withdraw. You assured me you weren't- that it remained my decision. As you notice, I haven't contacted you in any manner."

Now I'm angry. No, not angry per se, but irritated, "Sorry, Mycroft, you don't get rid of me that easy. I made a mistake in saying it was your decision. This involves both of us."  
"Gregory, do sit down," roughly, his hand out, inviting, and then in a more amicable tone, "please."  
The leather seat envelops my body but does nothing to calm my nerves.  
"What do you expect from me? You know--"  
Staying firmly in the cushioned chair, although I wanted so much to reach up and touch him, I say, as softly as I can, "a friendship. Someone to talk to, eat dinner, share stories, watch silly movies. That and nothing more."  
At first, I think I hit a note, but his eyes dart back to his paperwork, shutting me out. Do I stay like I usually would? There's something different tonight, and I decide to take my leave. But determined to continue my routine. To show him I'm not a threat to him.

* * *

As hard as it may be, I wait for four days and, with my heart beating fast, I place the card in the gates slot. It clicks open, and I breathe again. Obviously, this is good. Mycroft hasn't changed the key code.

I can smell the aroma of cooking coming from the kitchen and walk in to see him in his apron and stirring something in a pot. Instead of the quiet, he has music playing. Okay, It's elevator music, but it's something, something different.

I take the plunge and open my mouth, "do you know how to dance, Mycroft?"  
Without a pause in the whisking, he says, "yes, Gregory. We were required by Mummy to take dancing lessons."  
Impulsively, "dance with me. Take my hand and show me how to waltz. That's what this music is, right?"  
His eyes fly open wide, scared.  
"I, I cannot. I have to continue stirring, or the mixture spoils," his movement faster as if to show what might happen if he stopped.  
I have to take the risk. I step towards him.  
He pulls out the whisk and sets it on a plate.  
I can see his hesitation, that he's agitated by the very fact of my being physically close.  
I assume the lead by holding onto his waist and bringing his right hand to mine.  
One step, next step, and we're dancing around the kitchen. It's as if time had stopped and our total existence was in the two points our bodies were meeting.  
The music changes, and he flinches as he removes his hand from mine. Putting the counter between us, he picks up the whisk and silently continues where he left off. His face is flushed a slight pink.  
That's a start, I have to say, and enough for one evening.

* * *

So starts another routine, another breakthrough. 

On the nights he cooking or baking, the sound of music is around us. We waltz, we slow dance—a mile-wide gulf between our bodies. A barrier is being torn down. He's allowing me closer to him.

* * *

_John, I understand you and Sherlock go dancing once a month. Where is it you go?"_ Ringing him up.  
_Are you sure this is a good idea? It's a mixed group. Meaning all sexes. And is Mycroft going to be good with it?_  
_Not sure. Give me the info anyway_

* * *

It's my daughter's birthday, and I have to take the evening away from Mycroft.

 _Why aren't you here_  
A very unexpected text from Mycroft. And another good indication.  
_Birthday dinner for Angela. see you tomorrow night._

* * *

Now that Mycroft seems to be anticipating my nightly visits I want to throw him off guard.  
Without texting or calling, I no-show for two nights.

 _Stop manipulating me, Gregory. I acknowledge but really discourage you from continuing_  
Yes! It's working! He's upset. Even though he knows what I'm going on about he still texted me instead of ignoring.  
My face is stiff from the huge grin that's been put upon it.  
_Do you want me to come over_  
No answer. No need for one.

* * *

Two plates, each with a warm slice of strawberry pie and two cups of tea, greet me on arrival in his kitchen. Sitting across from one another on the stools we eat in silence.

I decide to pose the thought that's been on my mind.  
Before I can, Mycroft speaks," I'm detecting something important. Let's finish up and deposit ourselves to the sitting room."  
He takes his usual seat, the cushiony armchair and, smiling at that, sit on the edge of the sofa.  
"Mycroft, I'd like to continue our dancing. Would you consider going out? To a public place?"  
His head lifts, "That would mean--."  
I interrupt, "yes, coming out. I'm willing--," fiddling with a statue of some Greek god that's been on the table in front of me.  
  
"No, no. It's out of the question," abruptly stepping to the sideboard and pouring two glasses of whiskey.  
I can only see him from the back, but his movements are jerky. He's definitely feeling something, and in my book that's good.  
"Okay, enough! I'm not asking but telling you, "observing his hand as he tries to hide his tremors while giving me the glass.  
" I know of such a place, and tomorrow night I'm picking you up, and we're going. No excuses. And--if you run out on me--I'll put arsenic in your pie."  
That gets a slight smile.  
Placing the glass on the table, I take off without a goodbye or even a wave.

* * *

Panic darts through each nerve. There is no concept, no means to express the terror I am going to submit myself to. Dancing. Dancing in public. With a man, no less!

* * *

Determined to see this through for Gregory. Still, I stop at the front door of the club, and take a step back.  
His arm under mine he firmly escorts me through the door and inside.

* * *

A dance studio, the walls decorated with posters of mostly Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies.  
"We're not formal, so introduce yourselves around as you can. I am the director," Carl, and if you need anything, let me know. Bathrooms are out in the hall to the left, and I've got bottles of water, lemonade, and cookies on the small bridge table in the corner."  
Only one pair is on the floor right now, and, both male, looks as though their relationship has been solid for a while, judging by the way they move so easily. The men are black, and I can't help but admire the muscular arms and chest of the taller one. Mycroft, smiling within to myself, you are a bit of a hypocrite.  
The only other are two older women, and they too are wrapped entirely around each other.  
The tape recorder clicks off, and Carl enters another tape.  
A waltz.  
"You're a clever student, Gregory," amazed that he's taken the lead and advanced to the floor. I can't say a thing, my concentration is on the dance, on Mycroft's hand on my waist.  
The waltz ends, and a two-step follows the seconds of waiting. In this time Mycroft has neither left the floor nor let go of me.  


"You'll have to teach me," I whisper to Mycroft, going to sit on the metal chairs at the side of the floor.  
"Okay, all, break time. Get to know one another. Mingle," Carl shouts.

Lemonade in one hand and a chocolate chip in the other, a chill runs through me when the muscled black man invades my space.  
"Would you like to dance? My name is Alex, and my partner is Pete. I like your smooth style. It would be my pleasure if I could have a dance with you", his eyes half-closed, a predatory look if ever I've seen it.  
I step between, sensing Mycroft's tensing, "Thanks, but for now, we want to keep to ourselves."  
A deep laugh, "I get it new at this."  
His meaning comes through as more than the dancing.  
"Take me home, Gregory. I can not--," his back stiff, his face white.

We're in traffic, and as the car inches forward, I'm afraid to ask questions. Sitting so close to the door he could be outside, Mycroft asks, " will you come to the house tomorrow so we can dance?"

Even with the little glitch that happened tonight, he still can ask that question. I see the walls beginning to crack. I have to keep digging gradually, but repeatedly.

* * *

Each night is a lesson in dance. He's still holding me at a distance, but there is more eye contact, and sometimes even laughter.

* * *

I admit to looking ahead to Gregory and our dancing time. He's a keen pupil and doesn't try to overturn the invisible obstacles I've kept between us.

* * *

This time the only couple at the studio is Pete and Alex, the black couple.  
I know Mycroft is not sure of staying or ignoring Alex. Alex is undoubtedly flirting with him, and it's making both Pete and Mycroft feel squirmish. I have to say I'm ready to bash him in but for the fact he could knock me clean across with room with just a tap of his well-muscled arm.  
If Mycroft isn't saying anything then I'm content to stay here.  
Mycroft guides me, his hand on my back, the warmth driving right through my shirt and sending trickles of shivers, onto the floor.

After a few dances, a break is called by Carl, and we're both thirsty and stand by the refreshment table and pour ourselves some lemonade.  
"For a new couple, you certainly aren't into the huggy-feely thing," Pete begins, his eyes drifting between myself and his partner. He's trying to disturb his companion by his flirting.  
Mycroft, I think, is oblivious to what is going on. If he notices it, he's not upset. At least that's what I feel.  


"Can I have the next dance, Greg?" as he sets his hand on my arm, predatory-like.  
"Go ahead, Greg, I'll sit this one out," and without a glance, he picks up his paper cup and goes to the farthest end of the room taking a seat  
This is not good, but I'm being pulled, no dragged onto the floor, and the music would typically be romantic if it weren't for the fact that I could see what was coming.  
Pete gathers me tightly against him, one leg snaking its way between mine. We're being used as pawns in whatever scheming is going on between these two men.  
Not good.  
I'm subtly trying to extricate myself from him when he nods to the left, "what's up with the boyfriend?"  
"Excuse me, Pete." glad in one way of the excuse to break away but anxious over the state of Mycroft.  
His posture reflects his panic. His back pushed against the rungs of the seat, his fingers intertwined, grasped tight.  
Alex has his thighs against Mycrofts, his hands lay on the grey trousers, sliding up and down as if he was seducing him. And, theoretically, he was.  
"Please explain to this gentleman that I'd prefer not to dance with anyone other than yourself," the veins in his neck stretched out, his expression pained.  
Alex hurriedly removes his hands and slides to the other side of his chair, creating a space between him and Mycroft. "listen, pal, I don't know what you two are up to, but it's a no go with us. Take your fun someplace else."  
Without my realizing it, Pete has stepped closer," fuck this, Alex. Just fuck yourself," and I hear the door open and close.  
Carl, who was in his office, had walked in and now said, "sorry about whatever this is but, Alex, I suggest you also go and don't come back until whatever is going on with you two is settled."  
After Alex storms out, Carl says he's sorry. They are long time customers, and something must be going sour with them.  
We assure him we will come back and since no one else is there we also take our leave.

* * *

Our nightly dancing lessons continue at home, with conversation limited to impersonal items. Sports, politics and that kind.  
We're also visiting Carls's ballroom with no more Alex and Pete to upset us as before.

"Fellows, I'm closing the place for a month and going to help my brother out with his sick wife. But--I can give you a place to go to if you want. It's a lot bigger than this, and it's mainly gay and lesbian. What do you think?"  
I look towards Mycroft, and he takes the card that Carl has in hand. I'm stunned! This little place only has had six couples in the times we've been here, and it's very discreet. Off the beaten path. The one in question is on one of the main streets of London, and I suspect a different crowd altogether.

"You do understand that you'll be dancing with me, a man? And we might even know some of the patrons of the ballroom?"  
"Gregory, I've buried my true self away for so long. It's time I recognize and learn more about my sexuality."

* * *

A bigger and swankier dancing ballroom it certainly is. Instead of a tape player, we have a DJ. Instead of lemonade and cookies, a full spread of sandwiches and wine is laid out on a large table. With a tablecloth, no less.  
Greeted by the host he shows us to a table with our names on a placard where two other gentlemen are already seated.  
We make the usual introductions, and Mycroft promptly asks me to join him on the dance floor. Crowded with dancers Mycroft, as usual, takes the lead. It's so easy now with our bodies moving in sync. Engaged fully at the moment I bring him closer, hearing his intake of breath.

The music stops and we stop, unsure of what to do. But when the DJ announces a song that would be out of Mycrofts comfort I, without thinking, take his hand and link fingers and step off the floor with him following me.  
His hand is so good in mine, so right.  
"Loosen up; it won't hurt," shaking our conjoined hands but Mycroft releases and sits at the empty table.  
"I don't even understand how one gyrates the way they are right now, "his head swung around to watch the as a rock song boomed, and the crowd wiggled and shook.  
"Okay, all. Here's a nice soft, slow one to make love to on the floor. No removal of clothing. Just joking, "as we laugh and giggle.  


I'm following Mycrofts facial and body reaction to the dancers.  
A piece of paper couldn't fit between most of them.  
I see him swaying, almost in rhythm, nearly a part of it-- or aches to be.  
"Deducing what's going on, aren't you Mycroft? Want to get up and try? I warn you; it's sex personified," leaning close enough so he can hear what I'm saying.  
"Yes," standing, "but I'm not sure how I'll respond."  
"It's only me and if you don't want to stop us then," again entwining our fingers and stepping onto the floor.  
Gregory's against me, shirt to shirt, trousers to trousers, and the passion he exudes send signals of heat into my muscles and drives desire from my head to my groin. Instantly stimulated to an arousal I can recognize that Gregory owns up to a corresponding sensation.  
It's disconcerting, but I give into the sensation. No, no! Too much! Emotions are so entangled. The room appears to whirl. I step on Gregory's shoe, and I only hear my breath, rasping. I tear myself out of his arms and rush to the bathroom. The nearest stall is my refuge, and leaning over the toilet, I retch, expelling a foul-tasting liquid. Gripping the edge of the porcelain I slump to the tile floor, my limbs powerless to carry me upright.  
"Mycroft." It's Gregory tapping on the door," no one else is here," whispering, talking low, unsure.  
Choking and spitting out the last vestiges, I unroll pieces of toilet paper, fingers unable to hold much more than the wisp of the paper. I wipe my mouth, ejecting any last portion of chunkiness.  
I rest my forehead on the commode and taste the panic, the loathing in total. "Mycroft," Greg whispers," open the door and let me help. A glass of water, maybe?"  
"Just forget me. It's not good," sniveling. My remembrance produces the oozing of sweat that spreads to my clothes, soaking under my arms and my back.  
No good, no good, and in my failure, I beat my fist on the floor. Never sensing how severe the pain, never marking the blood that starts to paint the floor.  
"Mycroft, Mycroft," stop this," breaking, slipping to the floor, leaning my head on the frame, "calm down. I'm not going anyplace," attempting to maintain some sort of semblance.  
"Look." gathering myself up off the floor, "someone might walk in here. So, I'll be right outside the bathroom waiting for you. Clean up, okay?"  
I slide the latch open on the lavatory and shuffle to the washbasin. Splattering water on my face and applying my hands as a cup, I gulp a mouthful and avoid the mirror's image.

Gregory maintains a visible distance while waiting for the valet to bring up my car. It's almost as if we're strangers we're so removed both bodily and, indeed, at this point mentally. Difficult to presume we were formerly friends.

The chilly night breeze has me shivering. I need to incline against one of the poles of the awning, my body fatigued. I was longing for Gregory to offer to take a cab home rather than getting into in my car; however he doesn't offer, and I'm excessively humiliated to ask.

I'm debilitated and mindful of the nearness of the man in the front seat. I wish I could crawl into his lap, nestle up and avoid all the trepidation and pains of my mind.

I pull up to his flat, and he opens the door, one foot out, and facing out, he says, "I love you, I always will. Don't know what else to say or do for you," and the door shuts, leaving me to recollect his declaration over and over.

* * *

Damn it to hell! What a disaster tonight was! I wish I could relive it again! Poor Mycroft.  
How traumatized he was by that night with Vincent. It's a wonder he has kept himself in check. In that situation, someone might have committed suicide or taken to some form of chemical abuse.

How I wanted to embrace him, let him feel the comfort of my arms, the fact that I was accepting of him in whatever manner he wanted. But, after he emerged from the bathroom I understood that laying a finger on him would only shock him further.  
I was torn between getting into his car to monitor his driving capacity or to hail a taxi.  
Once inside the Mercedes, I knew he'd at least be able to get home okay. But--I kept running over scenarios, things to say, what to do and nothing would come up that was good enough. I kept my hands to myself and leaned against the door, as far from him bodily as I could. My last words just popped out. I had no intention of saying anything. Saying I love you. How dumb could you go? If anything that pushed him even further away.

* * *

Haven't seen nor gotten notification from the detective in two weeks. My fingers stray to his number on countless occasions, however --I dither-- and go no further. Nothing can develop from the this feeling, this fascination for him.

A commotion outside the door of my office has me looking up, and I wince. I detect both Sherlock and Anthea, frequently Sherlock's voice elevated. The entrance swings wide, "Damn, it, this is my brother Anthea, Find a file to hide your head in, and close the door."  
Those penetrating hazel eyes, scrutinize me while removing his gloves  
"Mycroft, I grasp you're the older and supposedly wiser, in any case--oh, never mind the platitudes. Sit on the sofa with me," his face bland, but almost caring.  
Whatever this 'talk' will be, I know it's not him we are considering. I moan, both flabbergasted and marginally scared.  
Sitting where instructed, I turn to look at him only to see certified concern written in his face, his eyes warm, his body relaxed.

I realize that you love Gregory," starting to dissent with my hand up," no, don't hinder me. I intend to have my say. Whatever is occurring is somewhat of a riddle. You've sustained me through hard times. If it's not too much trouble, grant me the opportunity to assist you."  
Something releases, and shocking even to myself, I open up by weeping profoundly.  


Sherlock's arms enclose me and I calm, while he pats my hair, rubbing a hand at the back of my neck. He retrieves tissues and tenderly wipes my face and nose. I feel like the more youthful sibling this time around.  
"Sherlock, Sherlock, help me. I need guidance," my gaze drifting to the window, watching nothing, seeing nothing.  
"I'm here. What's the issue?"  
"I can't contain it anymore. It's demolished me. My life isn't my own. I've held it in so close, so long." "One moment, brother mine, and opens the door, sticking his head out, " Anthea, nobody is to be admitted to this office until Mycroft himself says as much. And that incorporates calls," in the most authoritative voice, deep and rumbling.  


Swinging a seat near me, he goes to infold my hands in his, but I pull away.  
"Proceed."  
I take a long, deep breath, and in exhaling, my record of that night is again out in the open. I relate the entire episode with Vincent and the others. Not forgetting about or precluding even the language. At the point of completion, I'm doused in sweat, and tears have spilled out and dissipated down my face, with my head hung low between my knees.  


"Here's a whiskey." pushing a small shot glass at me, "don't drink it all at once. Gregory has been informed of this, I conclude, and I'm assuming that mentally you are ashamed."  
"We were dancing, and he held me excessively close, and I froze. In the most exceedingly awful manner, conceivable, "taking a deep breath, "I ran."  
"There are consequences possible. We can find the perpetrators and go through the whole he said process--or you can choose to shake it off and go on. Mycroft, as you recognize, John has unwaveringly been my rock. He anchors me. Gregory could be your support. Go to him, Mycroft. Don't be the despicable human being I was. It took John with his kindness, his reluctance to abandon me, to let my guard down."  
Getting up, his fingers stretch out, but he draws back, and steps away, out the door."Anthea," he's heard to say bluntly," if you step into his office without his permission, I'll eat you alive."

* * *

I do nothing. My finger plays over his number. I tap a few and stop. Innumerable times I deceive myself into assuming that to drive past his building is a scenic route home.

* * *

I've been delivered a folder by Sally Donovan, my Sargeant.  
" We finally have him in custody. Here's the whole file on him. Not a nice guy from early on, "snapping sharply. Reading the dossier I understand, besides the three murders in the last five weeks, he's sunk deep into the underworld with money laundering --and this sets him square into the realm of MI5. 

Sherlock bursts into my office, with John trailing.  
Throwing the morning's newspaper on my desk, he angrily states, "It's him. I remember him vividly. And Mycroft will have seen this paper by now," leaning heavily with both hands on my desk, his eyes blazing.  
Blinking rapidly," Okay, I'm dense. Fill me in," staring up at him and down at the image on the front page with the header reading, _Vincent Galasso accused of the murder of three of her Majesty's agents_  
John reaches out his hand and pulls Sherlock away from my desk.  
Take it easy. It'll be all right. Now tell the detective who this Vincent is.  
Sherlock is obviously distressed. Clutching at the chair back before lunging into it, folding his coat like a shield, and crossing and uncrossing his long legs.  
Pointing, no jabbing a finger at the front page, "that's the Vincent that fucked, "gasping on what he stated, "molested my brother. He and whoever his contemptible cronies were."  
Unable to stay still he stands, and John again sets a hand on him, quieting his partner.  
I'm aghast, my mouth hanging open, at a loss for--anything.  
"Damn fuck, Sherlock, now what? What do we do," shaky, standing heading straight for my coat.  
I can't contain it. I feel like I'm becoming a driveling mess.  
I have it on good authority that he's in his office. Anthea is retaining him in some manner. Go to him directly, Gregory. He won't acknowledge my calls and has installed a chair upon the door barring any entrance."  
My coat, one arm in and one hanging out, I operate the siren on my car, uncaring of the speed.

* * *

"He's not admitting anyone. I'm worried. I've never-- Anthea's face pale.  
Head against the door, I knock lightly, "Mycroft, it's Gregory. I know," and stop to let that sink in.  
"Don't shut me out," wetting my dry lips," I don't want--" and stop. What do I want? What can he expect from me?  
"Mycroft. Let me at least be by you. I don't want anything. I don't expect--," and I hear the scrapping of the chair from off the door, and it slowly opens.  
The office is a shambles. He's thrown, pelted, bombarded, and literally destroyed the room.  
Mycroft, shirt ripped, hair in tangles, hands twisting into each other, white-faced, survives in this chaos.  
Not daring to advance any closer, "I know Mycroft. It's him. Vincent Galasso. I know," so desperately do I want to take him in my arms, to cradle him. But-- I stand, carefully avoiding any confrontation. You're--" And we stand. Him with blank eyes, me with concern. We stand. 

"Say something, curse, anything. Or maybe a cup of tea. Or something stronger?"  
His body folds like an accordion, and he slides to the floor, lying on his side, legs bent up to his chest--and rocks.  
Careful Gregory. You could chase him away forever. Careful.  
Getting on my knees, my fingers ache to brush the hair off his brow, my arms--no! Not!  
Instead, I lean down, "tell me what you need at this moment," the softness belying the urge to shout.

"Gregory, I cannot. I cannot face this. He falls under--."  
"Yes, it's under your jurisdiction or command. So, let someone else. Plead sick.  
I cannot go home. Don't want to sleep--the nightmares-"  
My knees are tender. Not like it was during my early years.  
I sit, cautious not to affect him but sufficiently near so we can easily talk.  


"Okay, let's think this through. You haven't seen him since university, so it's likely he may not even remember you."  
Mycroft snorts, and yes, I get it.  
"With your name, he'll recognize you, all right. Why not let Sherlock take this over?"  
"So," standing up," I think you should clean up here and-- "I'm going to my flat, pack a bag, join you at your place. Permanently. I'm not leaving you on your own for a second. And, Mister Holmes, I will not take no for an answer, " reaching to grab his arm and help hoist him up. He looks fixedly at me as if noticing me for the first time today, and brushes his hair back.  
"I'll be with you as much as I can. Might even try to get time off."

* * *

I park my bag in the spare bedroom and chance a look at the backyard. A concrete seat surrounds a large red maple, and off to the side, a vegetable garden is growing. I can name tomatoes, beans of some sort, cucumbers, but the rest evades my naming.  
The room is outfitted with a roll-top desk, swiveling seat, lounge chair, and a king-size bed. Three large pillows and those silly small ones are thrown seemingly casual at the head.

* * *

I'm amazed that Mycroft has cooked dinner.  
"It has a calming effect. Too much to think about. Measuring, time, spices," a slight grin, at last!

* * *

I'm jolted awake! Screams! From Mycrofts room. Bounding out of bed, into the hall. His man, Jeffrey is there, in a robe, barefoot, weaving his fingers in and out, terrified.  
"Go back to bed. I'll handle--no, wait," as he turns away," can you make us tea please?"  
He nods and shuffles away.  


The door is somewhat open, and I ease toward the bed.  
He's flinging himself wildly, arms up swinging at some unseen adversary. Guardedly I sit on the edge of the mattress and run my fingers over his arm, murmuring, "Mycroft, it's Greg, it's Greg. I'm here. You're not in danger. I'm beside you."  
His arms fall to his side, his eyes blink and open wide, seeing nothing, seeing whatever is in his subconscious. He's so still I almost wonder if he's breathing. But I can see his chest moving.  
His eyes flicker, his head turns to see me sitting, waiting.  
"Gregory. What do I do? Will, it never die?" faint, skittish.  
Something I never thought to hear from this man. He who holds the British realm in his hands. Who's cold demeanor has given him nicknames like the Iceman, Haughty Blueblood, Swanky Snob. He's a child crying out, pleading for release. Imploring for it to have never happened. That he'll wake up to it being a bad dream. Something leftover from a horror film he had seen.

"I'm right here, my love, right here. Would you want tea?"  
His eyes bulge, his both hands grab at my waist, my arms squeezing in a deadly embrace, "don't leave, the nightmares, the-," aiming his face away, but keeping his hold just as tight.  
It is at that moment that Jeffrey lightly knocks and enters with a tray.  
"Leave it on the table, and thanks. Go back to your room," and seeing the fearful look on him," don't worry, I am staying here. Mister Holmes will be fine.  
He nods and removes himself quietly.  
"Do you want to change your pajamas? They are damp."  
"Help me?"  
Fear takes hold. Removes his clothes? Can I do this without--? Come on, Gregory, you've seen naked men before! But this is Mycroft! This is a person I feel something for.  
He removes his hands, sits up somewhat unsteady.  
With a bit of a more substantial voice, "pajamas are in the top drawer of the dresser."

Once he's done, I'm awkwardly unsure what to do next. Do I go to my bed? Do I sit with him?

Sitting up, he looks at the sheet covering him and, again in that teeny voice, "come to bed with me?"

A question? No, he actually desires me near him but is abruptly not capable of applying that assuming approach he regularly employs.  
He's still uncertain. Still sees the demons in the dark.  
Sitting down, I lift the sheet and tentatively put my legs under. And rest my head on the other pillow. Cautious not to touch, to trespass in his space.  
"Mycroft, sleep."  
Turning his body on his side, he's so close I feel his breath on my shoulder.  
"Can I hold your hand?" ever so wobbly.  
Fingers wound together I squeeze him and try to not think regarding I'm in the same bed as this beautiful person.  
He drifts off first, and I listen to his even breathing, soft against my shoulder and smile.

* * *

While another MI5 has taken over the proceedings Mycroft has become resolute in confronting Vincent.  
Technically he can critique it with the deputy, but he is so obstinate on engaging with Vincent that he's been summoned to his chief's suite. He won't reveal what transpired, but it's obvious he's gotten his way.  
"Gregory, are you aware that Mycroft has been granted permission to visit Vincent? He's at the prison now," Sherlock's panicky. Not like him.  
" I knew but didn't think it would be this soon. And he would be smart enough to have someone with him."  
I'm leaving right now," taking the keys and jumping into the car.

* * *

I'm met by the governor, walking ahead of me as he speaks, "Mister Holmes is outside Vincent Galasso's cell. I was ordered not to allow him inside until someone else was with him. I'm assuming you're the person." I can't say a word; my thoughts tumbled, my hands sweaty, my eyes unable to focus.  
We walk down a hall through many locked gates, each one with a guard that unlocks the bolt. The area's walls that we pass through have different color walls. We turn into a separate gallery, and in contrast, this sector has only six cells.  
In front of a cubicle, staring ahead is Mycroft. My hand drops on his shoulder, he flinches and then acknowledges my presence.

The person, Vincent, is sitting in a metal chair, legs crossed, also gazing. At Mycroft.  
The two never say anything, never flinch.  
The fuckingist big smile, no smirk appears on the cells roomy.  
"Oh, you've got a companion, I see. Well, well. Fucking good, isn't it?"  
"Gregory. Leave us," his expression severe. More like the Mycroft I know.  
"Nope, staying right here," legs spread out, arms crossed.  
Mycroft, half turns, "leave."  
The one word cold as ice, his teeth gritting.  
Vincent cackles," That's the old Myc. Iceman, frigging cold. "  
"Why not have the boys let you in? We can have a chat. A very, very cozy chat," his eyes dropping to Mycrofts crotch.  
" But without your--partner--," sneering, the word sounding dirty."  
Mycroft's eyes are pleading silently. I don't want to shame him in front of this scum, but on the other hand, I'm not sure I should go.  
But those eyes, imploring. I should do as he wishes even if it's contrary to my feelings.  
Whispering, attempting to have my eyes communicate, show him I'll be near and that my heart is with his, "I'll be in the waiting room."

Taking off down the hall, I move to a chair, sit, rise, sit, and begin to pace the room. On a table is a coffee urn, and I pour the black brew into a plastic cup. Taking a sip, it's monstrous, and I dump the rest in the trash bin.  


_Gregory. What is happening? Is he all right?_  
A text from Sherlock.  
_he's with Vincent, and he doesn't want me around. I'm in the waiting room._  
_He's not caged in with him, is he?_  
_No_

I give kudos to Mycroft for restraining himself. He could very well have engineered his entering the cell.

_Text me as soon as you can. I trust you_

* * *

"Did our little party ruin your life, Mycroft? You, the upright, composed, self-controlled," his voice doubles, resound off the walls.  
" You self-possessed bastard. Even in bed, you controlled every aspect. Oh yes. When we fucked, where and how. And, oh heaven forbid the morally perfect cock, you are should use the word cock or fuck? Did you know I grew to despise you? I was about to give you up, to throw you away. Instead, I threw you to the dogs."

I hear those words, each one hitting, striking into my brain, my heart. My mouth in a firm line, teeth tensed, holding my balance. I sway. Did he see that?  
No. He's too involved with his madness and his triumph. One mystery has disturbed me across the years, and it grieves me; however, I must question. Must own the result, despite the possibility of it being disturbing.  
"Did you plan that night?"  
He slaps his knee, giggling in amusement. Snickering with swaggering braggadocio. Head threw back, his finger points at me, reveling in it.  
"Yes, you stupid ass. I handpicked the guys. All hated you. Wanted to bring you to their level. We planned on getting you drunk. But you weren't drinking. As usual. You dumb fuck. So I had to pour it down your throat. God, that made me hard! We thought we'd each get one in your ass and leave. But with all the guzzling we were doing it turned into something more." He rubs his chin, thoughtfully, and then, looking up at me, his eyes gleaming, I probably fucked your mouth and ass twice each. Never had it so good."  
He stands, moves to the bars, leers, drops a hand to his trousers and clutches.  
"Look! Thinking about that night is fucking me up. I'm so hard I could fuck both your holes. All for you, Mycroft Holmes."

* * *

Stay Mycroft. Don't run. That's what he fancies. To recognize you're still in his grasp. I take two steps away.  
He sneers, laughing, and steps backward.

"You were gifted in your classes. You could have advanced greatly into government service. What made you convert to a criminal's life?"  
"Now that's none of your business. Go back to your playmate. I'm not going to acknowledge you anymore. You're yesterday's history. Bye Mycroft," plopping on his bed, his laughter chasing as I walk down the hall. I recite over and over in a muffled murmur, "Vincent Galasso, you can no longer torment. I deliver myself into my control."

* * *

Gregory is perched on edge and anxious as he notices me stroll into the room.  
He leaps up, and I hold up my hand to deter any conversation.

On the way home the car is charged with tensions, mainly on the part of Gregory.  
"Let me come in. Let me stay the night," he says, as I'm ready to step out of the car.  
" No. I require time for myself, a chance to contemplate on the events, past, and present."

* * *

Three times I text Mycroft on the next day, getting no answer. And the same happens for days.  
I need, as hard as it may be to let him alone. He told you that flat out. I'm so worried.

I call John and ask to meet. I'm curious as to what he knows.

John meets me at the pub and our discussion, at first, centers around the latest rugby match.

"Okay, okay. I know what really drove you to ask me out. It's about Mycroft. Well, Sherlock has been keeping a close watch on his brother. And Mycrofts been doing strange things, well, strange for him. Sitting in the park, people watching, you might say. He's hardly in either his home office or his workplace. Anthea has been tackling most of his load."  
"I worry more about his sleeping. He has nightmares, you know."  
"Believe me; I know nightmares," chuckling slightly, picking up his empty glass and signaling for another fill. "Sherlock has seen to it that he has meds, light ones. It amazes me how sensitive Sherlock is now to Myc."  
Taking a swig of the now filled glass, licking off the foam from his lips, "be patient. He'll come around."

* * *

That's what I have right now is patience. No, it's not. How many times do I drive by his house? How many times, when my mobile rings do I jump thinking it's him?

* * *

During the following days, I fill my time meandering around the streets of London, demanding no security tracking.  
I intentionally keep away from any localities where Greg may be, the police headquarters, his preferred bistro.  
The dread of what to say, what to do, grips me in a state of limbo. Neither in nor out. With him or not. Each day apart makes it more obvious to do without. Or does it? Am I assuming that to restrain him? Or myself?

* * *

It's bloody cold out, but I endure it. I have started to examine others, pondering on their lives, their nightmares. How is their personal life? Do they obsess about a friend or family member? Have they had any encounters that are similar to mine? How have they adapted?

Evenings are unimaginable for me. I'm terrified of nodding off and dreaming. Those images torment me. In any case, for some unbelievable reason, they begin to disappear.

* * *

I startle Anthea when I open the door to the office. Without question, without anything but a slight widening of her twinkling eyes, she commences with the days work.

Is this a good opportunity to rejoin with Greg? Would I be able to renew our friendship? And maybe more? Well, you upright, composed, self-controlled--quoting a specific person--this is the opportunity to find out.

* * *

_Gregory, I'm prepared to further our relationship. Your place or mine._

_Shit, don't throw jokes like that at me_

_Not joking. Willing to enter a new phase. My life has transformed. Car will pick you up at six. I'll cook a light dinner. It's possible a stay over would be acceptable._

_Huh? Stop. Way too fast for me_

_Sigh, yes or no, keep up with me Gregory._

Yes, Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes

* * *

Unsteady and tense, I'm attempting to cook and drop the wok to the floor. Glad there is nothing in it yet. Next, the spatula falls to the floor. Cleaning up the spatters, I mutter, "you're a mess yourself. Get a grip."  
I can't recall how to create the chicken cashew stir fry. I made it on dozens of occasions without glancing at the recipe, and now find I must refer to the cookbook.

I had kept the front door unlocked and let Gregory know that I'd be in the kitchen cooking our dinner.  
I am aware of his fearfulness. His stress is as noticeable as mine, but I clear my throat to say, "dinner is about ready. Would you pour the wine? It's sitting on the dining room table."

I carry out the Chinese wok and set it on a trivet. A tossed salad with almonds, snap peas, carrots, onions, coleslaw, and balsamic dressing balances the meal.

At the very start, the only words from our lips are," pass the-" each apprehensive about coming to the point of the evening.

"What brought this on? Why now and what has changed," the detective says, after eating a good portion of the meal.

I cannot explain specifically. But I have done a lot of reflection, and its the moment to move forward. Discover new experiences."

After dinner, the table cleared, I'm at a loss as to what to do. How to proceed.  
It's Gregory who leads. Walking before me into the parlor and turns on the radio, tuning it to discover soft music.  
We stand, a substantial distance apart, and I realize this is a defining moment. But I cannot step towards him. My feet won't move.  
"Shall we dance?" his blue eyes bright, sparkling with expectation, his arm out, hand beckoning.  
I move into Greg's awaiting arms, taking the lead, as I usually do but leave a distance between our bodies. Please, Mycroft, I say to myself, let your inhibitions go. Disregard everything except for this very minute.  
Swaying back and forth, I let my wonderment over Gregory pour out. My affection, affection, warmth, are apparent in the manner in which I lean towards him. Closer, until there's no gap. Nothing to separate us.

Staring at his lips, enticing me, I lean toward him for our first kiss. He's frightened and pulls back, laying his eyes on mine.  
We move as one, our lips finding one another, delicate, warm, scarcely contacting.  
Gregory's mouth opens, waiting. My tongue enters, investigating, tentative.  
He permits me each opportunity, picking up certainty as I go. My tongue forcefully moves inside, increasingly decided, as his energy coordinates mine, he gasps a breath.  
Gregory halts our movement and stares inquiringly at me as if to ask what next.  
I lead him to the couch, and we set down, my hands gradually, cautiously contacting his shirt, feeling his heart pulse beneath.  
"Mycroft--don't do anything--"  
"As I lead in our dancing, let me lead in this--my exploration."  
The first buttons become undone by my fingers. The subsequent one is harder since the shaking of my hands becomes stronger.  
Setting his hand over mine," would I be able to help? Is this what you need?" so delicate my heart leaps.  
Murmuring," please."  
He releases the rest of the buttons I place my palms on his chest. His wavy hair is practically all silver, with a pinch of the blondie curling in and around.  
He releases the sleeves of his shirt from his arms and lets it fall on the cushion.  
My breath inhales, I shudder," no, don't talk. I need to discover my way all alone. With no prompting. Also, if it's too hard, I'll stop, I guarantee." His neck turns into my next objective, while he sets his hands on his lap and lets me proceed unhindered.  
Inclining in significantly closer, my tongue leaps out to take a lick under his ear, and I hear his profound admission of breath.  
I begin to unfasten my shirt; however, he stops my hand, "can I have the honor?"  
I consent but as he touches I tense my muscles and draw away.  
Observing the growth at his trousers, a sudden panic seizes me. At the outright excitement of him so near me. His thigh in contact with mine.  
He wriggles imperceptibly away, placing a gap between us. He recognizes where my gaze has landed, and he states, "Okay, my love, we should not go any further."  
"Gregory, --" choking. My fists clenched, I cannot lift my eyes to his.  
"Stop, let's draw a line in the sand. It's plain to me that this will have to be a slow process. And I'm willing to let it happen bit by bit. How's that sound?"  
"Indeed, that makes great sense," submerged in the urge to escape, to disappear.  
"I'll say my goodnights now," turning, but checking himself before going," would you like to go to the dance studio tomorrow?"  
"That would be most pleasant. Good night--and thank you."

* * *

At the studio, a waltz is already playing, and Gregory leads me onto the floor.  
Pete winks, Alex says, while locked tightly into Pete's embrace," that's good, looks very good."  
I feel astonished how easily I fit into Gregory's arms.

* * *

The night is a haze of impressions of Gregory's heart beating against mine, our fingers bound together, our steps in precise synchronization.

"Congrats you two, you look so good together. Glad it's working out, "Pete smiles sincerely during one of the breaks.

"Would you come home with me tonight? Would a homemade peach pie be enticement enough?"  


"Whoa, that's all the convincing I need."

* * *

It's the aroma, the warmth of the pie, the delight in his sparkling eyes, his laugh that rings uninhibited that compels.  
Lifting my hand, implying he accepts it, I proceed down the hall to my bedroom.  
He stops short, his eyebrows raised, loosening his fingers from mine he backs out.  
"Trust me, Gregory, give me credit."

The action of unbuttoning our shirts, while our lips are an amalgam of tongue and teeth, hands hurrying to share impressions of flesh.

I back Gregory to the bed, and he falls on his back, and I lie next to him. Brushing my face upon his cheeks, my tongue arousing low moans as I peruse his ear and neck.  
I'm short of breath with both the miracle and the dread. 

Gregory lies, hands at his sides, taking it in, and I conclude he's paying special mind to my signals.

A nip of his neck with my teeth, my hand resting and caressing his chest.

I stop and lie on my back, the delight of physical contact has my thoughts spinning.

Gregory turns onto his side, his lips brushing my cheek, my nose and--rises to cover me, his legs over mine.  
Alarms signal in my brain, driving my body to act without deduction and I push him, and I shout out.  
He tumbles off the bed, getting up and on his knees, "oh god, what have I done. Shush, my friend. Damn, I wasn't thinking. Deep breaths, my love. No one is here to hurt you.  
And taking a deep breath, he says, "I spoiled it didn't I?"  
I mumble, tears welling in my eyes, trying to keep some semblance of myself together, "sorry, so sorry."  
"There will be no sorry's Mycroft, only learning. Both of us have to get the knack of what is right and what is wrong. I tell you what. Let's stop now."  
"No," leaning on one elbow, "no, we should go on."  
"There is no reason to push. Your body right now is on high alert. We have so much time to try this," and he stands up, looking down at me, "let's watch the telly or a movie. Which one would you prefer?"  
"A movie. Yet shouldn't something be said about you and your preference? "  
"Let's go to that fancy theatre you have in your basement and pick a movie. There. I've stated my preference."

* * *

Some portion of me is caught up in the film, and the other half is questioning what do I require now?  
I crave to stroke Gregory. To know him both intellectually and physically. The physical is the hardest. I'm still caught up in disturbances I acknowledge I don't understand how to command.  
My hand rests on his thigh.  
I hear the slightest intake of his breath.  
Sliding it closer to his groin, I lick my dry lips, I choose to deposit my hand on his crotch.  
He's not firm, yet he wiggles to indicate his approval.  
Should I proceed and stroke him?  
Finding it pleasing myself, and determining his availability, my hand strokes, circles.  
His response is instantaneous, raising his hips, to allow himself growth.

Self-conscious and intimidated by his sudden movement, I snatch my hand away.

* * *

The movie is over, and the lights are on.

"I shouldn't have done that. My mental state is so unpredictable, between what I ache for and what sets off a recoil."

"Mycroft, it's--good. Can we get rid of one fixation of yours? Don't apologize for your actions. I already have some good guesses as to what you'll find distressing. We'll live with that."

I need to concur with Gregory and express, "that goes for you also. No justification for anything you do that may turn out badly. In the end, we'll arrive at a point of everything is good.


End file.
